


And Hereafter We May Suffer

by SneakAttack29 (SurreptitiousFox245)



Series: The Random Adventures of Elisabeth Kardon [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Epilepsy, F/M, Gen, I'm really just bored, Like lots of criminology, Mental Health Issues, Modern Girl in Thedas, OC Inquisitor - Freeform, Other, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sorry Not Sorry, Temporary Amnesia, and behavior, and psychology, criminology, portrayal of neurological illness, possible trigger warning, seriously it's great
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8638867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurreptitiousFox245/pseuds/SneakAttack29
Summary: I didn't want this. I never wanted this. I didn't ask to wake up in that cellar, chained with this mark on my hand, but I did. And I have to make the best of this situation, try to figure out why everything seems so damn familiar. All of this while saving the world and dealing with a lack of modern antiepileptic medications. Can anyone say "Hello, panic attack"?***Modern criminologist gets tossed into Thedas as the Inquisitor. My take on a perchance overdone cliche while exploring how someone might cope with neurological illnesses (specifically epilepsy) in Thedas where there doesn't seem to be much knowledge on these sorts of things. There is a Solasmance in here, but it's going to be a sort of secondary thing. I can't stay away from it completely--the egg is too strong.NOTE: EDITS ARE FINISHED, REJOICE!!!!





	1. And Hereafter She May Suffer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> I don't have too much to say about this one other than it's been boiling around in my head for a little bit. I needed to take a break from my DAI/ES crossover, so I decided to go ahead and type this up. Also, I wanted to work on my first person, but if I messed up and there's some second person in there, I apologize. I haven't written in first person in a few years, so my mind automatically wants to go to second. 
> 
> Also, as an editing note: The tense is present in the first part of the chapter, and then switches to past. This is deliberate. It switches back in a few chapters, but there is a reason why I did this, and it's explained then. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

* * *

“ _Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams._ ”

-Bram Stoker, _Dracula_

* * *

  ** _~_ ** **_Virginia_ ** **_– 2016~_**

* * *

 

 **Another night** , another pill, another headache... I glance down to the tan and green capsule cradled in my palm with more resigned venom than I am prepared to admit. My eyes follow a natural progression to glower also at the other two orange pill bottles on top of the nightstand. The bland labels both clearly have my name, Elisabeth M Kardon, printed boldly above the name of the drug contained within. Lamictal, topiramate—both with their instructions, both with their purpose. Back down to the pill in my hand, prazosin, and the venom drains to the exhaustion of someone who hasn't slept in three days.

I need to take it.

But I don't _want_ to take it.

I know how well I'll sleep without it, if I even manage to without the drowsiness it causes. Nightmares will make me sleep fitfully and lightly. I'll wake several times in a barely subdued panic attack, fall back to sleep, and repeat the cycle anew. Endlessly. And when my alarm blasts its annoying, level tone at seven the next morning, I will somehow be more tired than I am now.

I love my job, practically live for it, but it's so, so taxing. I'm in research, but the type of research I do--criminology--and the focus...it doen't help. I never have breakdowns at work despite dealing with some horrible case studies, and I'm a good researcher, good at what I do, but having PTSD going into this type of work doen't make it any easier to deal with the aftermath. The insomnia that already is a symptom of frequent nightmares and hyper vigilance is agitated by the crime scenes I needed to analyze, by the rapists and serial killers I needed to interview, by the minds I am forced to try and unravel. Past horrors. Past, past, past.

Sighing, I stare at the prazosin again. I don't mind taking the other medications. I'm blissfully without side effects, and they work how they are intended. Besides, _off_ the antiseizure medications is far worse than any of the few, very mild side effects I get _from_ them. With counseling on the side, it doen't really matter how taxing my job gets. My flashbacks, stress, moods, and even seizures are firmly and irrevocably under either my control or the medication's. At least awake. Asleep, I dream. Asleep, I remember things I don't awake. Things I blocked for good reason. Things I buried.

The prazosin is supposed to help with that, and it does. But I'm a tiny female with a blood pressure that runs on the low end of normal, and the medication I take to stop the nightmares, one of two for such a purpose, is actually medication originally intended to treat hypertension that actually only works for that reason in a very small handful of people. I am unluckily one of the ones who is receptive to this part of the prazosin. Low blood pressure plus blood pressure medication equals some uncomfortable results. It isn't anything serious, or wasn't when I started taking it, but I like it less and less as time goes on. Headache, dizziness, weakness, the list continues. I can't do my job adequately waking up like that, but I also can't do my job on no sleep.

And I, quite arguably, _need_ to be able to do my job. Researching the behavior of serial rapists wasn’t an easy area, but someone needs to do it. Someone needs to help enforcement catch those monsters who prey on unsuspecting people, who violate them in the worst of ways, and someone needs to make sure those people that _are_  preyed on don't become another number in the column of statistics labeled " _casualties_ ".

 _I_ don’t matter in this scenario. _I_ don’t need me to be able to do my job. _They_ need me to be able to do my job, and either way, they lose. I can take the drugs and be foggy, or I can _not_ take the drugs and be exhausted. Either way, I make mistakes. Either way, someone gets hurt, gets away, isn’t caught, isn’t found.

 _Isn’t, isn’t, isn’t_.

Not good enough.

I'm sneering now as I stare at my hand, long curled into a fist. In many ways, knowing the logic behind all my problems makes it all worse. A chemical imbalance here, some intrusive thoughts from past trauma there, a few misfiring neurons just for that added kick—it makes it all seem so…inconsequential. Minute. Ridiculous. Second guessing every action, every decision. Is this what I want to do, or is it what the PTSD, the "anxiety" is telling me to do? Do I listen to this instinct, or do I disregard it? This feeling? This mood? How much of this is me? How much of this is something else, that monster lingering in the closet no one wants to talk about? And just how pathetic is it that I needed to rely on the compounds, the chemicals in those little pills, those little capsules, to keep me stable? If they even _can_ fix what's wrong?

How does that make me any better than _her_?

I grab the glass of water off the nightstand—half empty or half full?— and shove the prazosin down my throat before I can think too much on it. I’ll take vivid dreams and weakness over another torturous eight hours of fitful sleep plagued with dim nightmares and spotty memories and _her_. Of them. Of that little room and those ten days and those ten years leading up to them.

They call me lucky. I _am_ lucky, have seen _un_ lucky. But I don't _feel_ lucky.

The glass is returned to the bedside table with a clatter, and I rest my head in my hands as I try again to massage away the throbbing behind my eyes. I know it won't work, but that's the whole point of futility, isn't it? To not be worth the effort. It's the story of my life, self-pitying as that is. I flick the light off. The bulb darkening is supposed to be a metaphor for my mind to dim and rest, but as I wrap myself in a cocoon of white duvet and quilts and dreams, I understand it to be anything but.

* * *

 **I didn’t know** if I woke up at all before the first time I remembered doing so. If I did, I didn’t recall and no one wanted to tell me. All I knew for sure as I came to was that I didn’t know how I had ended up on the ground, let alone when exactly my carpeted bedroom floor had gone from plush to coarse. The next was the predictable headache, but that was all too quickly eclipsed by a burning, _searing_ pain in my hand.

 _God_ , I whimpered, but no sound actually emerged. _Did I stab myself?!_ It felt like fire ants were crawling across my nerves from my palm, _through_ it, and up into my wrist. I didn’t know how else to describe it aside from burning, piercing, and stabbing all at once. Something clattered and zinged in my peripherals, but I still wasn’t quite _there_ enough to be able to focus on much more. It hurt too much. I was too groggy. _Fucking pills_. Prazosin always did this to me.

The more vivid the dreams, the worse a headache I tended to get, so I tried to think of what I’d dreamed. I slogged my way through the throbbing and stabbing, the fog and haze. I remembered going to bed, the nightly debate over the medication, but it was muddled. Something…a flash? Lightning? Was it supposed to storm tonight—last night? Was that what I was hearing?

No, I didn’t _think_ so. There was something else, something I was missing. Something I couldn’t recall, maybe part of whatever dream I had. A hand, someone reaching…fear. No, not fear—crippling terror, paralyzing horror. The beast lingering around every corner. The one nobody thinks about consciously, but when spurred to, it grips and grasps and grinds and refuses to relinquish its hold. It was the worst anxiety attack, that moment in that small space six days in when I finally gave up and gave in, those split seconds before the door wrenched open, the first case I consulted on where I couldn't save the victim, the moment when the doctors told me exactly what was wrong with me and I suddenly didn't know where to go from there. It was fear of the unknown and of every trauma, every anguish conceivable and then some. It was entire peoples crying out together in agony, and it was that one lone soul sitting in the dark waiting for a light that would never come.

It was fear.

It was terror.

It was a nightmare.

Brow furrowing (or, attempting to, rather), I tried to remember more, but it slipped through my grasp before I could get any purchase. I shouldn’t have had a nightmare. I took the prazosin. There shouldn’t have been any fear or terror or loathing or isolation. Bizarre and vivid were the norms I was accustomed to experiencing every time without fail. The occasional side effects aside, the medication had never failed me. Not once. Not ever. And that it would do so now made no sense.

Somewhere off in the distance where full consciousness was, I was pretty sure I felt myself being jostled and moved. I couldn't discern how, where, or why, but something felt like it changed.

 _That_ perked me right up. _Was there someone in my house_?! Instinctively, I tried shooting my hand out to the side where I kept my gun on my nightstand. However, I wasn’t prepared for my other arm to be tugged along with the first and a harsh jolt to follow. Chains. Bound. My hands were bound. Shoving down the sour memories of the last time that had happened, I tried to scramble through my memories of right before I had gone to bed. Had I set the security system? Yes, I did every night. Last night had definitely been no different—I was paranoid about things like that and my nightly routine of setting the alarm and locking doors and windows was part of what made me a creature of habit. Safe neighborhood or not, I’d seen cases of women in safe neighborhoods, teenage girls from good families, intimidating young men who would never hurt a fly being kidnapped, murdered—all sorts of unsavory things. Collateral from my line of work, I supposed, that I worried so much about safety.

I knew all too well what lurked in the dark.

I was a little more aware of what was going on as I was forced to my knees. Another pulse of discomfort rippled across my scalp, and I winced, but it was nothing compared to what tore through my left hand seconds later. My eyes flew open, leaping down to my palm which was…green… Confused, I flexed the joints through the agony, and, yes, my hand was _glowing_ a vibrant green a few shades lighter than emerald.

What…the fuck?

Also…this wasn’t my house. The familiar clinical detachment I usually fell into while working draped over me as I glanced about, keeping my gaze low. Flagstones, torches, a ring of people standing around and…Jesus, were they holding swords at me? The fuck was this—some kind of cult? My mind ran through what I remembered to be various behavioral characteristics of kidnapping rings, but the attire (armor, for Christ’s sake) and the careful placement of everyone, including myself, made me think instead of a ritual. Or…they _were_ uniform. I peeked up through my lashes and the pain. Military, paramilitary at the least. Very well disciplined, not wavering, clearly doing as they were told, so…perhaps not ritual.

Loyal, though, undoubtedly. But then begged the question of how they had transported me without my knowledge. I didn't sleep _that_ deeply, medicated or not, and I couldn't detect any inhibiting injuries. Well, aside from my hand, but I didn't exactly want to touch on that presently.

Actually, I did—how in the ever-loving hell was it glowing? It was an open wound. Or at least it looked like a gouge, but I wasn't bleeding. Maybe a small LED or the like placed inside an incision to represent or mimic something? But that didn't explain the lack of blood. I should have been bleeding more than I was. Which was to say not at all and not normal. I tried to quash the panic and only partially succeeded.

Needless to say, the next five minutes had me abandoning my mental musings in favor of running through a silent stream of profanity vulgar enough to make a pirate blush.

Okay…I’d clearly been kidnapped. Calming down a little, I shut my eyes again to try and refocus my thoughts away from cursing like a drunkard. What was the first thing I always hounded the new interns at the research institute to look at with kidnapping cases? _Victimology_ , my mind answered. Why this victim, at this particular time, in this particular place? Risk level. Routine. Enemies. And there was a victim—me.

Much as I adored my schedules, being on a routine did make me more susceptible to attack. My rigid routine made me easier to predict. And prediction had to be key here. If I’d been attacked spur-of-the-moment, I doubt I would have remained asleep long enough to be grabbed. That took planning, and I was chagrinned to think I may have been oblivious to having a stalker.

A glance at my knees revealed that I'd been changed at some point out of my pajamas and into a pair of dark jeans, my knee-high boots, and one of my leather jackets thrown over a light-colored t-shirt. It was then I noticed the chill in the air, too cold for the middle of June or the cellar I was in. Someone had dressed me prior to leaving my house with the location in mind, and that creeped me out more than it should've. It also reinforced my theory that all of this was planned thoroughly. It had to be.

My train of thought didn't get much farther. The door in front of me suddenly burst open in a dramatic entrance I was almost certain was staged for effect, and the ring of medieval soldiers sheathed their swords in unison. I eyed the two women who stormed into the room curiously. The one with short hair was obviously fuming, but the redhead in the chainmail seemed more subdued, if no less hostile. Partners? Short hair too obviously dominant and ginger submissive. Perhaps the other way around, brains and brawn? Either way, women being the ring leaders here somewhat surprised me. Kidnapping groups tended to be sex traffickers and those were rarely run by females.

Still, I tried to recall what I knew about partners. Submissive is easier to manipulate against the dominant, they feed off each other, egg one another on. It's better to interact with each separately, but I could work with both at the same time.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now?" the short-haired one sneered, beginning to circle me like a vulture greedily waiting for her last meal. I furrowed my brow, keeping my eyes on the redhead coolly yet calmly monitoring the exchange. This burgeoning good-cop-bad-cop routine was familiar, but I never really thought I'd ever be on the receiving end.

"Why you shouldn't kill me?" I mimicked, hiding my terror as best I could while also drawing on those few hostage negotiation lessons from an old FBI friend that I vaguely remembered. The more I repeated her, the more she'd clarify, in theory. "Why are you asking me?"

It apparently wasn't the right thing to say, though, as the woman suddenly lunged forward before I could react and snatched up my newly-glowing hand as the...whatever it was flared up with a spike of pain. "The Conclave is destroyed, and everyone who attended is dead! Explain _this_!"

"Explain what?!" I gasped. "I have no idea what the hell that is! What Conclave? How do you expect me to explain something I don't understand?"

She growled, "What do you mean you don't understand?!"

"Clearly that I have no idea what you're talking about!"

" _You're lying_!" The other woman was on her partner the moment her hand drew back as if to strike me, seizing the limb and wrenching her bodily away with a strength that surprised me. "We need her, Cassandra!" The dark-haired woman, Cassandra, deflated some to stew in her fury while glaring at me. I narrowed my eyes. Why did this all seem so...familiar?

I didn't voice that question. "Need me? What for?"

"Do you remember what happened? How any of this began?" asked the ginger, tactfully ignoring my own question. Whether she knew why I asked it or not, I couldn't tell.

I decided to be somewhat truthful. “No. I don’t know what Conclave you’re talking about, but the last thing I remember was going to bed, in my own home. I had a weird dream, a nightmare. Things chased me, I think—there was a woman, too. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here in clothes I wasn’t wearing before with a migraine and a glowing hole in my hand.”

“A woman?”

Strange she would fixate on that. “She was reaching out, I think? I don’t remember. What does a nightmare have to do with this?” Cassandra was interested now, watching me tersely with sharp eyes. Her arms were crossed over a chest plate bearing a very familiar symbol and in a very familiar stance, but I couldn’t remember…

“Possibly everything,” she insisted. “Where are you from?”

My eyes narrowed. Surely, this was a joke—they’d taken me, hadn’t they? “Manassas.” There were practically crickets chirping, but that very well could have been the hissing of my hand.

“I’ve never heard of this place. Are you from the north? Tevinter?” The name struck a chord, again familiar, but I couldn’t place it. This whole thing was turning out to be like a bad case of déjà-vu. Déjà-vu was something I had an uncomfortable familiarity with, though, and what tended to follow was never good. I made a mental not to keep my eyes steadfastly away from the mark on my hand whenever it decided to start flashing. I did not need to have a seizure on top of everything else. 

I snorted a laugh all the same. “Manassas, _Virginia_. Virginia is considered to be in the south, if only barely. This is elementary stuff, here.”

Cassandra pushed, “South of where?”

And here I actually paused, because her total confusion was something I hadn’t been expecting—genuine. “The United States…how…? What the hell is going on?”

Chainmail lady shook her head, eyes hard if not just as curious. It wasn’t until then that I registered their accents—something vaguely French and maybe Austrian. “Something strange, to be sure, but this can be sorted later. We have more pressing matters to deal with.”

Cassandra beat me to asking by heaving a rough sigh laden with resignation and a hint of exhaustion. “True enough. Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

“Um, what?”

Redhead, Leliana, ignored my question and slipped silently out the door while Cassandra carefully undid the chains around my wrists. Sadly, she only proceeded to bind them again with rope before hauling me to my feet none too gently. “It will be easier to show you. What is your name?” My hands were in front of me, and I had to wonder if she was serious while giving her the most bewildered look I could conjure. A little maneuvering, and I likely could twist my way out of these binds. Either she trusted me not to run, trusted her ability to catch me, or viewed me as a meager threat at best. While I probably couldn’t take her in a fight and doubted running would do me any favors, the principle rule when dealing with bound suspects was never to underestimate their ability. Even unremarkable people could do remarkable things under duress.

“Dr. Elisabeth Kardon,” I muttered finally, the title being tacked on more out of habit than anything else.

She looked at me strangely. “You are a healer?” I laughed.

“No, I’m not…I have a doctorate, not a medical degree.” Cassandra and a few soldiers began leading me up a flight of stone stairs now. My idea of cellar wasn’t far off, but some of these dusty idols stuffed in the corners seemed religious. Were we under a church? If so it wasn’t any religion I was familiar with, I didn’t think.

“Doctorate?”

“I went to school for a very long time,” I explained, a slice of humor making its way through the dread. “Not for medicine, I study crime…look, I’d love to explain all about it, but can you please tell me what’s going on?”

We emerged into a veritable cathedral, and women who I assumed were priestesses of some sort by their robes parted out of our way in something akin to fascinated horror. I paid them little more than passing mind, instead observing the carvings and decorations and lone panel of stained glass I could see through the vaulted ceilings. My electives in school had centered on religious studies, religious art, a reflection of a childhood fascination I’d never quite been able to shake, but I recognized none of what I was seeing. Cassandra didn’t make any move to give explanation to my questioning looks, instead heading to the gargantuan wooden doors at the front of the vestibule-like structure and heaving them open. I resisted whistling. Those didn’t look light.

However, my awe at the woman’s strength was short-lived as I winced from bright light hitting my eyes. Blinking back the tears and starbursts it caused, my jaw slowly started doing a perfect rendition of a fish when I saw the glowing…green thing hanging in the sky off in the distance. Above a mountain range I didn’t recognize. A snowy mountain range I shouldn’t have been anywhere near.

Hell, it shouldn’t have been snowing in the first place. It was the middle of June! Appalachia could get cold, but Manassas definitely wasn’t high enough in the mountains for that kind of weather at that time of year. Hell, that weather at that time of year _anywhere_ in the Appalachians was a stretch of the imagination. And the Norse/medieval cabins scattered around? The people staring slack-jawed back at me, eyes filled with mixtures of confusion and sheer hatred? They didn’t fit, either. Nothing fit, and I had a very sinking feeling I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, so to speak.

Truth be told, it was all very surreal.

“It’s being called the Breach,” the warrior woman began to explain, not looking at me, but instead at the…thing, the Breach. “It is a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It is not the only one, just the largest.” I didn’t mean to laugh, honest. Really, I didn’t. She was being too serious and with this glowing thing on my hand, I couldn’t really doubt much of anything she said at this point. But I figured the hysteria was beginning to bubble up to hide the panic.

“Demons?” I shrieked. “You actually expect me to believe that?”

She glared at me. “Yes. I do. All of these rifts were caused by the explosion at the conclave.”

I gestured wildly with my bound hands. “I’ve never heard of an explosion being able to do that.”

“This one did,” she insisted. “The Breach is growing, and unless we act, it will grow until it swallows the world.”

As if right on cue, I noticed the looming light in the sky give a resonating pulse that I could feel somewhere in my chest. I didn’t register it for long before another sharp, agonizing pain ripped through my hand. It was somehow worse than the last time, though I wasn’t sure how that was possible, exactly. The last time had been excruciating. It felt like the edges of the wound were searing off, eating away. This was like someone had dipped my whole arm in acid, and I collapsed to my knees, tears pooling in the corner of my eyes that I refused to let fall.

Cassandra followed me, locking gazes once the pain had subsided enough to allow me to squint. “Each time it expands, so does your mark. And it is killing you.” That hit home a little harsher than I thought it would, but it made sense. The wound—mark—felt like it was eating away at itself, and from the looks of things was undoubtedly connected to that giant thing hanging in the sky.

I’m sure once the haziness of shock wore off later, I’d be panicking.

“That mark may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

I huffed, cradling my burning hand in my lap and trying to hide it from the biting cold that was beginning to seep through my jacket. "You think I had something to do with this, don't you?"

She nodded. “It is a possibility we cannot afford to discount. Not now.” Looking down at my hand, I went quiet for a moment, contemplating. I could discard the theory that this was a dream. Even dreams didn’t hurt this much, feel this real, this _familiar_. It was something I couldn’t place, some connection I couldn’t make. The pieces where there, I just couldn’t force them together.

“You said it could stop this… _whatever_ this is?” Cassandra murmured in agreement, and I sighed. “It…makes sense. Okay.”

The woman’s eyes blinked slowly like she couldn’t quite believe I was agreeing with her. Once it sunk in (my overly-dramatic persistence in keeping eye contact with her probably helped a little with that), she reached hands out to help haul me back to my feet. For a moment, I thought she was going to undo my bonds, but a quick glance at the angry civilians shooting me death glares apparently made her second guess herself. Instead of freeing me, she began leading me towards what appeared to be a gate, though she was a bit gentler this time around. Said gate looked charmingly rustic and fit well with the Norse theme that seemed to be permeating this tiny village. I noticed quickly there were no electrical lines, and what lights there were, they were fires, not electric. I filed this away for later. It would undoubtedly be useful, but right now… My eyes dragged back up to the Breach. Something told me right now I had bigger fish to fry than whether or not this place had modern technological luxuries.

Cassandra speaking startled me out of my observational musings. “The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers.” Interesting—“Most Holy”. Conclave, Chantry; it all sounded suspiciously reminiscent of the Catholic Church. I had to stamp down on my natural inclination to pursue a theological debate.

“And it exploded?” I asked instead.

“Yes,” sighed the woman as we made our way past a blacksmith’s and a stable. “You were the only survivor, at least so far, and many blame you for it.”

I nodded placidly. “Understandable—it’s suspicious.”

“They are lashing out at the sky, at the Chantry, at _you_ ,” she said. She looked grim. “They realize not that we must think  _beyond_ ourselves, as she did. At least until the Breach is sealed.” We had stepped out onto a bridge now, and the warrior stopped me with a hand, turning to face me as she pulled a small knife from somewhere on her belt. I held out my hands expectantly, and the frown that tugged her lips at the action I suspected wasn’t truly out of displeasure and more simply the weight of the whole situation. Still, she cut my bonds with not a word and took the lead again past several soldiers to another gate at the end of the bridge. The soldiers stared at me, mumbling what I assumed to be prayers under their breath. They were standoffish, terrified, scarred—but somewhere under all that was something like hope.

I realized then they hated me, but I was the only thing that had a chance at saving them. Another look at the strange mark on my hand. I…wanted to panic about this, the anxiety attack could be felt in the lump rising uncomfortably in my throat, the tears prickling behind my eyes, but I forced it all down. I forced myself into work mode, compartmentalization. All of this…this _strange_ and _insanity_ and _impossibility_ could be sorted through and properly catalogued later. Right now…right now I needed to try and seal that hole in the sky, however crazy that sounded.

The crazy part could be pondered at another time. I just needed to get it done.

Cassandra had said something, but I completely missed it as she led us down a path. I saw the soldiers running towards us, saw the Breach spitting chunks of _something_ from that light, however I was anything but prepared to see one of those green, flaming rocks plow into the soldiers. One flew at least ten feet in the air as a supply cart exploded, sending debris everywhere. Another was dismembered, I think, but I stopped analyzing after that. Cassandra had pulled me back away from the blast and had tried shielding my unarmored form from the flaming splinters as best she could. One still skimmed by my arm, though all it succeeded in doing was scorching the leather. I remembered being a little chagrinned at the price of this jacket. I wasn’t really regretting that extra twenty dollars now.

We continued on a little faster now, Cassandra in the lead. More things were spat from the Breach and crashing all around, but none were near enough thankfully to cause concern. The Breach—and my mark—flared as we were coming upon another bridge, and it brought me to my knees. It was worse than the last time, again.

“ _Jesus fuckin' Christ!_ ” I hissed, my Presbyterian roots, and Kentuckian accent, I liked to ignore shoving their way to the forefront in the manner of mild, religious-inspired cursing most of my family considered heinous blasphemy. “ _Goddammit!_ ” I said a few other things that came out more of a mumble.

My companion helped me to my feet once more, murmuring, “The pulses are coming faster now.” I whimpered because that sounded not at all pleasant and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to feeling those things even closer together. I got a weird thought that it was behaving humorously like labor pains, but dismissed it as soon as it came.

To distract myself from the lingering ache, I decided to ask a few of the questions raging in my mind. “You said I’m the only survivor? I don’t remember being at this Conclave. Could that be how I survived?”

“It is possible,” Cassandra shrugged. “You fell out of a rift in the middle of what remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Our soldiers found you unresponsive. It could be you were pulled through somehow, or perhaps you were there and do not consciously recall.”

“What was the Conclave for?”

She eyed me a little weirdly for that, but answered anyway. “It was a chance to settle the war between Mages and Templars. The end of it in such a manner, however…”

Mages. Okay. Sure. Why not? And Templars…that was…interesting…

I sighed. “Both sides are going to blame the other.”

“Not many realize that,” she acquiesced gravely. It looked as if she was about to say something else, but one of the flaming rocks from the Breach suddenly slammed into the bridge as the two of us were just beginning to cross it. People screamed as they were sent flying, and I was firmly launched off of my feet as Cassandra, myself, and the unnamed soldiers and supplies crumbled onto the frozen river below. The cold seeped almost immediately through my jeans as I tried to stumble to my feet, dazed. Cassandra, sword and shield in her hands, shouted a warning for me to get back as something began bubbling out of one of the green scorch marks atop the ice. Dizzy as I was, I wasn’t going to argue, at least not until another mark started boiling and another shadowy _thing_ began to emerge not four feet in front of me.

It fully formed and growled, and we stared at each other for a few seconds, me gazing wide-eyed, terrified, into where I thought its eyes probably were. I couldn’t tell. I was frozen, my brain sluggish and trying to register everything. Waiting for the moment to act. I couldn’t decide.

The decision was made for me when the creature began to lunge.

* * *

 


	2. Attempt the Absurd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't really *think* there's anything suspicious about these people...but I think there's something suspicious about these people.
> 
> ***  
> In which Elisabeth gets disarmed, fights off a shade without a weapon, closes a rift, and meets Solas and Varric. Though for some reason she can't put her finger on, there's something about these two...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little shorter this time, but I reached a good cut-off point. It's a tad dialogue heavy and it does come mostly from the script, but I was trying to focus more on Elisabeth's reactions to the people and the familiarity of the situation.

* * *

“ _In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd._ ”

  
-Miguel de Cervantes

* * *

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**Time seemed to slow** as the creature began to rear its arms up as if to strike. My hands out of habit reached down towards my waist, and I was further dismayed to have my fingers curl around empty air instead of the pistol I tended to carry out of paranoia. I quickly darted my eyes around for something, _anything_ , before catching sight of a bow in relatively good condition by a piece of rubble that had once been a supply crate. I didn’t think, just dove towards it, and the monster’s clenched fists slammed into the thick ice harmlessly.

Scooping up the quiver and rolling to my feet, I clumsily drew an arrow and knocked it back. It had been at least ten years since I’d touched a bow, but if anything, life or death situations were generally quite good for learning on the fly. The thing huffed and puffed and began sliding its way to me again like a slug, lanky, clawed arms jerking and swinging awkwardly at its side. I fired the arrow but missed by a small margin. Cursing, I slid back a few steps to gain more distance and drew another arrow. This one hit right in the hollow of the throat, and the thing flinched back.

I’d been aiming for the eye…area…thing, but hey, I’d take what I could get.

Another arrow was fired, hitting just below my first shot. One more seemed to do something as its skin began to bubble. It let out another keening roar as it seemed to almost evaporate back to the Breach where it had originated. I blinked down at the bow for a moment, a bit incredulous that I’d actually been able to get rid of the thing, before shrugging and turning my attention to the duplicate Cassandra was fighting. I fingered another arrow in the quiver sloppily thrown on my back, but it didn’t look as if she needed any assistance when the beast was quickly run through. It, too, bubbled and misted back into the sky.

However, I wasn’t prepared for the warrior lady to turn her weapons on _me_. “Drop your weapons! _Now_!” It took a few for me to see her point. My knuckles clenched quickly around the wood.

“Alright,” I said slowly, beginning to set the weapon down on the ice. “Have it your way—I’ll disarm.” Something seemed to flash in her eyes, though, and she suddenly sighed heavily, wearily, and sheathed her sword. Through the dark blood that speckled her face, she looked almost a decade older.

She halted me. “Wait. There will undoubtedly be more ahead. It is dangerous, and I cannot expect to protect you. You came willingly, and have not tried anything on the way here. Take the bow—you will need it.”

Nodding, I slowly straightened and carefully slung the bow onto my back. “Thank you, Cassandra.” She tiredly motioned me closer, and then pressed around eight tiny vials into my hands as we began moving towards a path on the other bank of the river. The liquid inside was a strange, syrup-like pink that sluggishly bubbled from one end of the vial to the other as I twisted one around. I was reminded of the things we used in science class in middle school when we learned about viscosity.

“Health potions,” Cassandra clarified. “I’m afraid we may end up needing them.” I was instantly skeptical, but I knew that there was a nice bruise forming on my leg from falling off that bridge. My left palm was pretty scraped up, too, and I highly doubted she would have handed me poison. All it probably would do was numb the pain, so I pulled the small cork out and downed it quickly. It tasted vaguely of mint and some sort of berry I couldn’t place, but the aftertaste was reminiscent of fire…however that worked.

It definitely didn’t numb the pain, though.

No, it actually fucking _healed_ it. I about choked on air as I watched the torn skin on my hand actually knit itself back together. A small cut I’d gotten three days ago from cooking sealed up with only a faint burning sensation that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. And on top of all that, I suddenly felt like I’d downed around five cups of coffee and an energy drink.

I eyed the vial. The institute I worked at needed these for when the paperwork piled up to astronomical proportions. Shit, I really could have used some of this when I was in college.

My impromptu companion seemed to have noticed my awe, as she shook her head with the slightest of grins. It was still more of one than I’d seen on her yet. “Have you never had one before?”

“Er…,” I floundered for a few seconds before finishing lamely, “no. They don’t exactly have these…back home…” If that reminded Cassandra of the weighty topic that definitely needed to be discussed later, she didn’t mention it. Instead, I was motioned out of my haze and down another path. I decided to take a bit of a chance and stuff the vials into my jacket pocket—there was a zipper, thankfully, and if my luck held, they wouldn’t break.

Ha! Luck! Who was I kidding? It was the Kardon family curse—if it could go wrong, it would. The only luck my family seemed to have was bad, I mused wryly. It was intended more as a silent joke, but there was some truth to it.

I winced when I remembered _that room_ again. Alright, a _lot_ of truth.

After fighting a few more of the things we’d fought before (shades, I learned from Cassandra) and also several green specters aptly named wisps, (which didn’t hit hard, but that energy drain thing they did was something else), we eventually came to another bank on the same frozen river. Just beyond was the beginnings of a large hill or perhaps small mountain embedded with a staircase. Another stone bridge spanned across the valley cut by the river through its various cycles of freezing and thawing, and something told me that was our destination.

Or was until yet another green ball of flame and stone spat from the Breach and cut the corner of said bridge. It crumbled in a mess of rock and fire and timber and people, the actual projectile having crashed heavily onto the ground. Another handful of shades and wisps boiled _their_ merry way into _our_ not-so-merry way, and I grumbled profanities under my breath as I reached for another arrow.

“This is ridiculous,” I complained, firing into the nearest wisp and staggering it before it could do that strange barrier thing they seemed so fond of doing. Cassandra reached it and quickly finished it off with a half-hearted swing of her sword. Despite the barriers, I was finding the wisps my favorite to fight. They didn’t appear to require a strike in any particular place or have any vital spots. Damage was just damage regardless of where it was, and it reminded me soothingly of a video game.

And that thought made me falter in my shooting to narrow my eyes at the weird sense of déjà-vu that washed over me for what had to be the sixteenth time that day. It wasn't the usual "going-to-have-a-seizure-take-cover" type of déjà-vu that I typically got. It was different. I didn’t know _why_ —all of this just felt like _home_ and _comfort_ for some god-forsaken reason I couldn’t place, and it was driving me insane!

Cassandra giving a brief grunt of pain snapped me back to what seemed for the time being to be reality. ‘ _Right, fight now, muse later_.’ Several more arrows were fired off, each one quicker than the last as I gradually remembered how to use the weapon in my hands. I was barely better than a novice, but since I didn’t have my gun, it would have to do. Besides, my Sig would probably…not go over well with the people here. Well, either that or it’d go over _too_ well, and I didn’t want to be responsible for _that_ fiasco waiting to happen. It wasn't like this place had concealed carry laws, right?

Once the demons (yep, demons—she hadn’t been lying about that, I supposed) were well and thoroughly as dead as we could make them, the two of us began striding towards the staircase. Cassandra grimaced as she sucked down a vial of potion for the gash in her shoulder, whether from the suspicious taste or from the fact that she had to use one at all, I couldn’t tell. “We should be getting close. You can hear the fighting.”

I paused, and sure enough, there was some screaming, some growling, some sort of whooshing sound I couldn’t place, and something that sounded suspiciously like…a crossbow? Hm. If those existed here, I really needed to get one. Though, that same nagging feeling of familiarity was making me think they weren’t exactly…common.

“Who’s fighting?” Why did I feel like I already knew the answer?

She shook her head. “We’ll see soon. We need to help them.” Fair enough, I supposed, but I still filed the plethora of questions springing up in my mind for a later date once we weren’t fighting for our lives.

I was sure my calendar for after we got done doing whatever it was we were trying to do was just full up for a week and a half, starting with total emotional and mental breakdown, followed closely by bouts of extreme anger, and then rounded out with incessant questioning and perhaps a tad bit of logical planning.

The stairs were annoying, but more like a buzzing fly what with all the adrenaline I was running on. We crested the hill to find rubble, fire, and a few corpses. I winced at the latter, shaking my head sadly as we passed. Too many people were dying for this…whatever this was. A ledge was leaped quickly before we came face-to-face with several people fighting demons next to a…green…blob…

_What the fuck?!_

Nope, not thinking about it. I started firing arrows as Cassandra took off to begin hacking at demons. Several of the people were general soldiers, though a good many corpses already littered the ground. They looked like they had been fighting for a while. My guess of a crossbow hadn’t been too far off, as there was a short, stocky little man in a very nice, border-colonial style leather coat. The bloody crossbow was almost as big as he was and he noticeably wasn’t stopping to reload it. Though I supposed the size wasn’t much of a feat as he didn’t look like he came any higher than the middle of my upper arm. He had blondish hair both on his head and almost coating his chest, which was proudly exposed. I winced at that. How was he even dealing with the cold?

The other noticeable person was a rather lithe, bald man flinging ice from some sort of staff. _Mage_? I questioned at first incredulously, but then I remembered Cassandra’s explanation for why the Conclave had been called. A war between mages and templars. I had to remind myself to keep firing at the demons when I also noticed that the guy had sharply pointed ears and decidedly angular features that weren’t quite…human. Elf, I assumed, or at least something similar. Did that make the stocky guy with the crossbow a bloody dwarf? Did I fall into goddamned _Lord of the Rings_ when I wasn’t looking?

Speaking of not looking, my lack of attention on the demons ended up costing me, as a shade was able to rush me somehow and knock my bow out of my hands. I yelped, a shrill sound I was embarrassed to admit had come from me, and barely managed to dart out of the way of another attack. It seemed content to just keep trying to slam its fists down on me, but I really didn’t want to take the chance of the thing realizing it had very sharp, very deadly claws.

My bow was too far and I didn’t have any close range weapons, so it looked like I’d have to do it the old fashioned way. Thanking god that I had thought several odd years ago to take self-defense classes after an interview with a rapist had gone awry, I lifted my hands up about six inches in front of my face, palms facing the shade in an “I surrender” position I had no clue if it would understand. Feigning a dismayed look, I watched it slow a little, contemplative, and waited until it was around two feet in front of me.

I didn’t give it a chance to think as I lashed out with three rapid-fire palm strikes, one to knock its face back, the second to jar it back further, and the third to where I assumed its sternum or whatever it substituted for one would be as hard as I could. It growled in a sputtering kind of way that I assumed was what passed as its cough, and I quickly jerked my right elbow around to hit the sternum again for good measure. My right leg braced so my left could rear up, plant itself firmly in the shade’s chest, and shove it away from me with as much strength as I could muster. It was thoroughly dazed, so I took the opportunity and newfound space to dive for my bow and fire two arrows as quickly as I’d delivered my punches. The last hit it just as it was enveloped in an unnatural coating of ice. The thing shattered on impact and fizzled away towards the green smidge hanging in the air behind me.

That ice had felt…strange. Potent. I followed the… _signature_ , for lack of a better word, to the elf who I hadn’t realized was standing an arm’s length away from where I’d lunged to retrieve my weapon. He gave me a nod of acknowledgement, reaching down to help me up from where I was still sprawled in the snow. When my left hand met his, though, his narrow blue eyes lit up with a form of recognition I couldn’t understand before they dimmed again.

He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off as he caught sight of something over my shoulder. His mind seemed changed because instead of releasing my hand, he shifted his grip to my wrist and forcefully dragged me over to the light, holding my freezing hand up to it once we crossed the distance. “Quickly! Before more come through!” I felt something pulse through my hand from him after a beat, which triggered some sort of reaction with the mark.

Describing the feeling of the mark connecting to the rift was difficult, but it had the strange feeling of something oozing out from my palm, attaching itself to the tear in the air, leeching something from it while grasping the edges and pulling it together, before sluggishly retreating back into the mark like a snake with a full belly. The rift flickered out of existence as I jerked my hand back with a wince, staring at my palm. It hadn’t hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant.

I peered back up at the elf who had his hands folded behind his back and a too-pleased grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. Something tugged at my mind to pay special attention to the necklace he was wearing, come charred bit of jawbone probably from some sort of canine, but I ignored it for now. “What did you do?”

“ _I_ did nothing,” he said, voice having a slight lilt to it. Irish? Probably something else, but he sounded…Welsh or something. I couldn’t place accents for the life of me. Regardless, I quirked a brow at him over his claims, though he seemed to ignore my skepticism with a practiced, if not amused, nod to where the rift had been. “The credit is yours.”

“So this thing is good for something, then,” I sighed.

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.” His explanation made a bit of sense, and I flexed my fingers in thought.

Cassandra piped up from behind me. “You believe it could also close the Breach itself?”

The man seemed to shrug, though he did move his hands placidly in front of him and also slouched a bit more. His whole posture seemed…unnatural. Something was telling me this man was proud, too proud to be so deferring. His body language was almost there, but came off as ever-so-slightly forced. “Possible. It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Salvation. Key. _Great_ …

“Good to know!” Chimed another voice, and I turned to see the short man—dwarf?—from before fiddling with one of his bloody sleeves. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

I nodded approvingly. I kinda liked this guy.

He took a few steps towards us, gesturing with his hands as if he were telling some grand tale. “Varric Tethras: Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” He finished with a wink to Cassandra that in less dire situations would have had me in tears from laughter.

So I settled for a snort. “Nice to meet you. You’ve got a nice crossbow.”

Varric’s feathers puffed up and he glanced at the wooden stock looming over his shoulder. “Isn’t she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

“You _named_ your crossbow _Bianca_?” I actually did laugh, but quickly quieted. I really was one to talk—I didn’t call my pistol Sig just because it was a Sig Sauer.

I went through a Deadliest Catch phase when I bought it and got my carry license—sue me.

The archer replied jovially, “Of course! And she’ll be great company in the valley.”

“Absolutely not!” screeched Cassandra so suddenly, I jumped a little. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

He flung a hand towards the river. “Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore! You _need me_.” A veritable staring contest ensued, both myself and the yet unnamed elf feeling a bit left out until the warrior finally threw her hands up with a rather disgusted sigh.

I chuckled. I was going to have to try to force more conversations between those two in the future—they seemed like they clashed just enough for it to be amusing.

Finally, the elf broke the silence. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.” Varric scoffed.

“He means, ‘ _I kept that mark from killing you while you slept_ ’.”

I blinked up at him a moment a bit startled. No one had told me how long I was unconscious for, but if it was long enough to have to have someone look over me and study the mark… “Thank you, then. You seem to know a lot about…all this.” I supposed I was subtly testing him with that remark, but it was true. That same something that had been bothering me since I woke up was telling me that the man in front of me knew far more than he let on, and I didn’t know why or what about.

“Solas is an apostate, well versed in such things,” Cassandra interrupted. The man, Solas, seemed to chafe a little at the term, but I was unsure why. Apostate…I don’t think that meant the same thing to me as it meant to them.

“Technically, _all_ mages are now apostates, Cassandra,” he corrected. All mages? Interesting. “I came to offer whatever help I can with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.” He sent me a pointed look that put me on edge. Regardless of origin, hm? Well, Cassandra already knew at least that something was up. Might as well free the cat.

I asked, “What’s an apostate?”

Aaaand they all looked at me like I had two heads. Lovely.

“Mages outside Chantry control,” supplied Varric. “C’mon, Nameless, everyone knows this.”

I snorted. “My name’s Elisabeth. And as far as I’m concerned, the town Manassas, Virginia is a common thing. I feel like there’s some disconnect between what you see as common knowledge and what I see as common knowledge.”

“Interesting. I’ve heard of many places in my travels, but never a town with that name,” mused Solas.

“And in all the traveling I’ve done for work, I’ve never encountered magic, elves, dwarves, or holes in the sky.” My face was a level deadpan. Exhaustion was beginning to creep its way in despite my attempts to stop it.

He countered with slit eyes. “That’s impossible.”

“Well, obviously not. I think something strange is going on here on top of this Breach thing. I was never at this Conclave. The last memory I have is of my home in Manassas right before going to bed. So unless I’m having the most vivid dream of my entire existence, I somehow got spit out of that rift from somewhere I highly doubt is anywhere close to here.”

Varric took a step. “So, you’re not from Thedas?” Another twinge of familiarity, but I again couldn’t figure out why.

I kept my face level. “Never heard of it.”

“This is something to be pondered later. For now, though… Cassandra, you should know that the magic used here is unlike any I’ve seen.” I was mildly impressed at Solas’ quick and efficient subject change. Everyone seemed to snap back into focus on the problem at hand, and I wasn’t sure if he did it because matters were pressing or because he noticed my discomfort. “Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine _any_ mage having such power.”

 _LIAR!_ My mind suddenly screamed at me. I covered my slight jolt of shock with a well-placed cough, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that every fiber of my being was telling me that Solas wasn’t telling the truth. And I didn’t know why. It wasn’t from reading his body language, it wasn’t one of my sneaking suspicions—it was a knowledge. A knowledge that frightened me, one I couldn’t grasp and couldn’t quite understand.

What the hell was going on?!

Cassandra sighed. “Understood. We must get to the forward camp quickly, then.” She led us to walk off towards a barricade. Varric muttered sarcastically to me as he passed, “Well…Bianca’s excited!” Blinking my remaining confusion away, I began to follow as well.

What…was I getting myself into?

* * *

 


	3. Luck is a Fickle Wench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elisabeth becomes a bit of a daredevil in the midst of the chaos, and then proceeds to be scolded like a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this took a bit. Finals finally caught up to me as did all of the other work I'd been admittedly slacking on this semester, so I'm completely drained at the moment. My brain is on the crispy side, so you'll have to forgive any errors. I tried, but I've been editing and revising papers for the past week and a half, so I'm sure I probably missed something somewhere.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

“ _For a change, lady luck seemed to be smiling on me. Then again, maybe the fickle wench was just lulling me into a false sense of security while she reached for a rock._ ”

 

-Timothy Zahn

* * *

**~ _Thedas – 9:41 Dragon_ ~  
**

* * *

**“So, Nameless, where’d you find that bow?”** The question caught me off guard, and I nearly stumbled trying to meander my way over the barricade. I turned to Varric and blinked a few times, brow furrowing.

“We were on a bridge and it collapsed. I snatched it out of the rubble before a shade could disembowel me,” I responded candidly, if not wryly. “Why?”

He poked at a bit of the wood by my shoulder, touching some of the lines running designs around the whole thing. “It’s got some serious enchantments—you can tell from the marks. I can’t tell what type, but you’re lucky to have found it.”

I really couldn’t help the snort of disbelief. “Great. Strange thing on my hand that’s essentially eating me, hole in the sky that’s eating the world, I’m _in_ another world, and now my weapon is enchanted, something that a week ago I believed was impossible. Do you reckon it’s good luck or bad?”

“Probably bad!”

“...Thanks, Varric,” I said flatly.

The four of us crested another hill (there seemed to be a ton of them, but we _were_ in the mountains), and a few things cropped up ahead of us that I barely had time to register before Solas was announcing them as demons. This clearly amused Varric to no end as he hefted the crossbow off of his shoulder with the largest shit-eating grin I’d ever seen on another living being.

“Glad you brought me now, Seeker?” She mumbled something clearly unpleasant under her breath while she charged. Solas, Varric, and myself hung back on a small ridge above the ice, focusing ranged attacks and attempting to cover the close-quarters fighter. Or, in my case it was more fumbling like an idiot. Around half of my shots didn’t hit where I meant for them to, and the other half missed entirely. I supposed it was a good thing the bow was enchanted, though I couldn’t tell how and there were no outward effects that I could notice.

It was still fucking annoying. If I had my gun…

One of the shades crawling around on the ice had some fancy fringe along its spine that wasn’t present on the others. I wanted to bang my head into a wall. Were these things fucking _leveled_ or some shit? Ranked? This was reaching ridiculousness of astronomical proportions.

And then the ridiculousness factor went up a few more notches when, just as a wisp started aiming an energy-draining-thingamabob at me, I felt something heavy slither across my skin. It was crisp and cool, slightly warmer than the air though not by much, and felt like someone had poured molasses over my head. Buckets of it. Startled, I didn’t have time to duck out of the way of the wisp’s attack and could only watch confused as the green sphere…bounced off me. Harmlessly. With no effect.

Alright. Nope. Done. Where was a goddamn wall?

“It’s only a barrier,” Solas said next to me, causing me to jump again and stare at him as he made twirling that staff around look perfectly effortless. I was slightly jealous. “Harmless. Now, focus!” Work-mode relapsed, and I realized that he had a perfectly valid point because demons were still swarming Cassandra. My second to last arrow slipped through my fingers, and I drew it back to fire.

…second to last… _fuuuuuuck_!

I took back what I said to Varric—this wasn’t a choice anymore, this was firmly and irrevocably _bad_ luck.

Scanning and scanning and scanning…ice, rock, rubble, burning cabins, rack of old fish, dead guy in armor on the other side of the river, too many demons, Cassandra…wait…guy in armor had a bow. And a half-full quiver. 

_Jackpot!_

Kind of. A wisp was hovering directly over the corpse as if guarding it. Well, no one ever accomplished anything without taking some risks, right? Sucking in a breath, I didn’t think more on it as I shouted something to the dwarf about covering me and sprinted my way off of that small drop.

I hadn’t, however, considered the slippery ice, though a few minutes waving my arms like a maniac to change my momentum fixed the problem. I propelled towards the wisp just as a crossbow bolt whipped past my ear and into the green haze that was a demon. I didn’t manage to duck under its attack and it smacked me thoroughly in the gut, but I  _did_  manage to stab it with my remaining arrow before tripping over the corpse and falling face first into a snow bank. Still, I was grinning like a maniac through the adrenaline rush as the thing disintegrated.

That…had been  _awesome_. The last time I felt that badass was when...hell, I didn't even know!

I grabbed the arrows and shifted to a crouch so I could balance a little better on the snow and ice, continuing to fire arrows as I felt the barrier be rejuvenated in a manner I could almost consider aggravated. Then again, it could have been normal. I didn’t know what the hell this magic stuff really felt like, did I?

A few more shots and a few more hacks had the last feathery shade dead, and I laughed something through the excitement that I suspected wasn’t quite English. I didn’t care. The fact that I had just pulled that rush off was almost astounding. The closest to something like that I had ever gotten was a spar against a slightly older, higher-ranked gentleman in my Krav Maga class several years ago. I had _lost_ that particular spar and ended up sprawled unceremoniously on my back, so it was more bitter than this instance. I turned my gaze to look at my companions crossing the river, about ready to ask if they had _seen_  that total  _badassery_ —

“ _What do you think you’re doing_?!?!” Cassandra screeching at me was the last thing I expected. My face fell as she planted hers only a foot away from mine, my excitement vanishing as if someone had pulled the plug from a drain at the bottom of a container I hadn’t realized was there. She fisted my jacket in her hands. “ _That was reckless, childish_! If you had not killed it when you did—!”

I ripped her hands off of my coat. I didn’t have to be told to know my eyes were blown wide. I remembered being grabbed like that, years ago, a smaller me in a smaller jacket in a small room. It wasn’t a happy memory. “But I did! And I’m no worse for wear because of it—why are you so upset?”

Her scowl was something out of a nightmare. “It could have harmed you!”

There it was, finally—the straw that broke the camel’s back. Her words caused all of the anger and hurt that I had been repressing since I woke up in that damned cellar to bubble up and explode with a resounding force. “Why do you care?! If I recall  _correctly_ , it was  _you_  who bound me in a cellar and decided to  _manhandle_  me during an interrogation, not accepting the fact that I have no goddamned idea what the bloody _hell_  is going on here! That treatment alone does _not_ give you the right to chastise me for thinking on my feet!” My breathing was a bit labored from the outburst on top of all of the exertion, but I seemed to have startled the woman into silence that lagged on for a few terse moments. Solas’ voice quietly broke it.

“Your mark can close rifts,” he said. “By that logic, it can close the Breach as well. I was not speaking lightly when I said you may hold the key to saving us all.” Aaand, cue righteous anger dissipating as quickly as my giddiness had. Wincing, I glanced down at that stupid green glowing mark, just in time to watch it give a mild pulse in-time with the hole that was looming over more than just the sky. I supposed they had a point. I wasn’t “dispensible nobody” anymore, not with this thing on my hand. Not like I was used to.

 _Idiot_ , my mind chastised. 

“Fine.” Huffing, I tugged at a few short black strands of hair that had slipped out of place in the chaos. “I get it. But I’m not sitting back and doing nothing. ‘ _Slacking_ ’ isn’t a word I recognize in any language.” Cassandra gave a nod and then began storming off towards a staircase leading up a hill (what was it with those?), while the three of us remaining followed a tad more sluggishly. I found myself uselessly wishing that we wouldn’t have to fight anything else. An ache was starting to make itself apparent in my shoulder, as well as in my calves and… Alright, I was starting to ache everywhere, to be fair. I was getting too old for this shit. When Varric sidled up beside me, however, I knew I was in for something perhaps more unpleasant than body aches and undoubtedly annoying.

He just had one of those faces.

“So…,” started the rogue with another grin that I was beginning to realize probably didn’t mean anything good. “Any language?” I rolled my eyes. Of course he would focus on that. Solas’ questioning stare on the left side of my head wasn’t doing anything to improve the situation, either. Great.

“Why are you asking?” I was leery and not doing a damn thing to hide it.

Varric shrugged. “An otherworlder falls out of the sky speaking the Common tongue. Alright, I can see that as a coincidence. I’m just curious if your world has any other similar languages to Thedas is all.” Hmm, come to think of it…the whole fact that everyone was speaking flawless, recognizeably-accented English was a bit strange.

Scoffing, I muttered, “I highly doubt this is scientific curiosity.”

“And you are undoubtedly not wrong,” interjected Solas. “However, I will admit that I am curious as well.”

“See? Two against one, Nameless.”

I conjured the fiercest glower I could muster. “ _No_.” 

Varric shrugged with the most fake innocent expression on his face I’d seen in a long time. “Suit yourself. I suppose I can always just make up something embarrassing when I tell this part of the story.”

“Why would you even want to write a story about this?” I muttered.

“It’s entirely ridiculous!” laughed the dwarf far too jovially for the situation. “Those make the best stories, you know.”

I raised an eyebrow and decided to point out the biggest problem in his little plan. “I don’t even know what kind of languages you have here. How do you expect me to be able to tell you if there are any similarities?”

He. Kept. Grinning. “Because I don’t really want to know if there are similarities, I just want to know if our new hero is bilingual.” I stared slack-jawed while Solas just rolled his eyes, apparently used to these antics after however long it had been since they had met one another. “You should also probably know that I’m a compulsive liar.”

“I could have told _you_ that after talking to you back there by that rift,” I scoffed. And it was true—I’d sat through a few behavioral classes throughout the years and conducted enough interrogations. I could read micro-expressions fairly well, and while Varric’s were surprisingly subtle, I was observant enough to be able to catch them at least a little. “I’m more confounded by how candid you’re being about it. To answer your question, yes. I am bilingual. It's typically not a bad idea for my line of work, and it was unofficially required for the one I initially wished to pursue.”

"And what kind of--?"

I didn't let him finish, cutting him of with a firm shake of my head. "Later. If we all live through this craziness, you can ask me all the questions you want. Both of you." That got a suspicious brow-raise out of the elf, but Varric at least looked somewhat placated, even if it was only to be temporary.

"One more question first?" I acquiesced to that, failing to see the harm as we climbed and climbed the stupid staircase. " _Are_ you innocent?"

Snorting, I answered, "I don't remember what happened. Either way, considering my predicament, why would I do...this?"

He sighed. "True. It's a shame though. You should've spun a story."

"That's what _you_ would have done." I was a little shocked to hear Cassandra chide the archer from her place at the head of the group. I thought she'd been ignoring us. Apparently not.

Varric gave another of his grins. "It's more believable! And less prone to result in premature execution." At the last part, he winked at me out of the corner of his eye. I rolled mine obviously just as we cleared the hill to find more demons. I groaned. So much for my hopes of a peaceful trek from there to the Breach. By now, the "novelty" surrounding the things had worn off, and all they were succeeding in doing was irritating me.

And scaring the pants off of me, but I wasn't going to admit that.

* * *

 


	4. Eye of a Needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I swear to God, if you feed me that ‘divinely inspired’ bullshit, I’m going to take your stupid hat and cram it down your throat.”
> 
> ***
> 
> Elisabeth meets Chancellor Roderick. She is not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017 guys! Here's a chapter!
> 
> And, seriously, I appreciate the appreciation from you guys. It means a hell of a lot to get those emails telling me I have kudos or comments. Seriously. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

“針の穴から天を覗く

_Hari no ana kara ten o nozoku._

Peeking at heaven through the eye of a needle.”

 

-Japanese proverb

* * *

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**We made it to this forward camp** Cassandra had been going on about. Somehow, we all were in one piece, though I would definitely question that miracle at a later date. There was a rift right outside the gate that I finally managed to tug shut after fumbling with it for an eternity through wraiths and shades trying to kill me. One of the shades had finally realized it had sharp, spiky claws perfect for disembowelment or perhaps the occasional eye-gouging and very nearly skewered me in the process. Had it not been for Solas' barrier and Cassandra's quick thinking, they would have had to find another way to close the Breach. I was lucky the health potion was able to heal most of the damage that managed to break through the magic. 

Fucking lucky. _Again_. 

Either way, I was exhausted. Adrenaline could only carry someone so far, and I was nearly at my limit. Thirty-eight was also pushing the envelope on the age side of things—I could argue that I was creeping up on being too old for this much excitement, but what choice do I have? Walk away? A snap glance at the people around me was unnecessary to confirm that they wouldn't just let me up and walk away. Not yet, at least. I found myself suddenly too valuable in a mess that shouldn't have existed in the first place, that if someone had told me existed a month ago, I would've laughed hysterically at them, and—

Shit. Everything had gone to hell in a handbasket, hadn't it? What a fun Friday _this_ was turning out to be. If it _was_ Friday anymore. Did they even call it that here?

“Are you well?” a voice asked from behind me as I bent at the waist in an attempt to catch my breath that was proving futile. It probably wasn’t entirely from exertion, either. I could feel the familiar bubbling of panic in my gut, and I didn’t like it. Too close to then, too close to the time that tumbled and turned and tossed everything into turmoil. Sucking in a final gulp of sweet, frigid mountain air and all but physically _shoving_ those thoughts away, I turned to see Solas leaning on his staff. Once again, his demeanor was unassuming, but some bits of it seemed terse. Like he was trying too hard to not be noticed. He gripped his staff deceptively. It in many ways appeared he was keeping it ready, but the _way_ he was handling it, the way he was positioning himself behind it. Solas was  _hiding_ behind his weapon, not necessarily literally, but metaphorically. Mentally. The hunch of his shoulders was decidedly reminiscent of something called somatic retraction. Somatic retraction was an instinctive, defensive posture, a subconsious reaction to stress or stimuli percieved as threatening. While we _were_ running through mountains splattered with demons that wanted to kill us, his cautious slump was more intensely directed inward, to the group. This elf viewed myself, Varric, and Cassandra as unknowns, something to keep his guard up around moreso than he did the demons. Had the situation been different, I probably would have found it funny. Instead, I found it suspicious.

Straightening and running a hand through my messy hair, I winced when I pulled at a particularly stubborn snarl that reminded me that I didn’t have the luxury of my hairbrush here. It was a tremendously stupid thing to realize with a tremendously stupid weight behind it. This was _all_ tremendously stupid. “Uh, define well?” He did little more than quirk a brow at me. The elf appeared as if he was just observing my movements, studying them with the same scrutiny I paid these strangers I was forced to call comrade.

“I see,” he replied finally, and I got the distinct impression he actually did. Something seemed to soften the harsh ice in his gaze just enough, just a touch. But it was _enough_ , and the sympathy was…something. “It is not much farther.” Hollow comforts, all of it, but as with the…perhaps not quite _empathy_ —but surely pity, at least—I could appreciate the sentiment.

I flashed him a small grimace of a smile before turning back to where the rift I just closed had once hung. Bits of green-stained rock that had fallen from the tear littered the snow with scorch and pock marks, and some of the white icy powder was stained with different types of blood—some thin and red, yet others syrupy and black as pitch. Mortal and demon. The contrast was…surreal.

I wasn’t focusing on that, though. Instead, I centered beyond what I was seeing until I was looking through it. My breathing was my main concern here, and I counted my inhale, held and then counted the release for a handful of repetitions until I felt that my diaphragm wouldn’t betray me with a hiccoughing fit again. The technique wasn’t one that tended to work for me, as I gravitated more towards grounding to pull myself out of and away from the edge, but something told me that trying to ground my panicked psyche to the world around me would just have the opposite effect when it was the world causing the attack.

It wasn’t the _past_ for once, and I wanted to laugh. The only solace I got out of all of this was that the breathing had worked--that meant it wasn't a seizure. Panic attacks I could deal with on my own fairly well. My companions would be left picking up the pieces if it was the beginning of a seizure, and I wasn't sure how well that would go. 

Sometimes I hated having panic attacks  _and_ epilepsy. It made distinguishing between the two ridiculous.

“Doctor?” Cassandra’s voice was hesitant, unsure if the word was the correct title I had imparted on her before. I blinked out of my stupor, anxiety attack abated as well as it could be without any medication to soothe or a quieter place to focus, and turned to face the group behind me.

Immediately flushing a little, I had to realize that the breathing exercises could look a little weird in hindsight. Particularly since I kept count by obnoxiously tapping at my thigh. “Elisabeth. Please. My mother gave me a name for a reason, or so I would hope.”

“ _Elisabeth_ ,” huffed the taller woman as though the use of my given name pained her to utter. “The camp is just here if you don’t mind.” She was snapping, impatient, with the dimness of too much stress embedded in her already dark eyes. I felt bad for her. Hers was the look of a woman who felt the world—or at least what may as well amount to a reasonable facsimile of the whole thing—was depending on her shoulders, the strength under and behind them that wasn’t quite so strong, that wasn’t quite so sturdy as she had to portray. Looks like that weren’t uncommon on a few older law enforcement officers and detectives, and I’d seen one once or twice the few times I'd had to consult for enforcement. Enough to recognize it. Enough to know.

“Right, sorry.” I made a quick decision then to keep my trap shut. The warrior had enough to worry about. I was already on that list—I wasn’t going to be more weight than she bargained for. Not now, not yet, not if I could help it.

With a few lingering looks of wary concern I tactfully avoided, we pushed through the wooden gates and onto another bridge. This one, thankfully, didn’t collapse thanks to Breach refuse, and was clearly set up as an outpost. Crates of supplies weighed down rickety, hastily cobbled together tables, and a chest we passed was laden with multicolored vials of different sizes and shapes. Probably they were intended to identify the contents. Remembering my earlier video game comparison, I decided something was getting smashed if the blue and green vials were magic and stamina like how red was healing. No. I wasn’t going to do that shit. Hell no, thank you kindly, go away please.

Two people were hunched over a slightly sturdier table in the middle. It was the redhead from earlier, Leliana, I think. The opposing party was clad in white, gold, and reddish robes with some type of cap, and looked every bit the part of the curmudgeonly old man righteously pissed off at the world. It was endlessly endearing.

Or, it was right up until he turned that murderous scowl on me. Then everything just went downhill faster than one could say _FUBAR_.

“ _Ah_ ,” sneered the old man as we approached. I crossed my arms out of habit. “Here they come.”

Leliana, bless her heart, tried to run something akin to interference. “Chancellor Roderick, this is—” I had no clue about this Chantry Cassandra claimed she and the redhead in the purple hood were supposed to represent. I didn’t understand much about its hierarchy aside from noticing that a lot of the clergy we’d passed in the village were female. Perhaps the men were fighting, perhaps they didn’t allow them often—I didn’t know, didn’t care to know, didn’t claim to know. And in the end, I guessed it didn’t matter much if the chantry was a matriarchy or patriarchy, or particularly what this man’s role was in it. But the tone of blatant disrespect when the man, Chancellor, crisply cut the woman off had my hackles raising, and not in a good way.

“I _know_ who she is.” I had to clench my hands into fists, one in the crook of an elbow and the other stuffed over my mouth, to refrain from punching him in the nose, and I typically had no problems controlling my temper. This man just rubbed me the wrong way. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!” I eyed him more carefully at that. He shifted his weight quickly from foot to foot, uncomfortable, stressed, fidgeting with knobby fingers. Lines in his face were even more exaggerated than what I suspected they should be—he didn’t look much over fifty. _Grand Chancellor_ gave him more weight to throw around, undoubtedly an official title, but Leliana had only referred to him as _Chancellor Roderick_ , which led me to believe the position was not so glamorized as he was attempting to portray it. Portray _himself_ , as it were. It was almost like he was grandstanding.

He was probably trying to keep order, but I had to wonder why it felt so much like a power grab.

My suspicions on his actual morsel of political power were confirmed when Cassandra, visibly insulted, stepped up to the metaphorical plate. “Order _me_? You are a glorified _clerk!_ A bureaucrat!”

Not to be outdone, Roderick fired back just as quickly, if not as eloquently, “And you are a _thug_ , but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” It was an impressive staring contest that ensued, and if daggers were capable of flying from eyes, I was sure that each respective party would have made nice pincushions. Leliana agreed.

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor,” huffed the redhead, fiddling with her gloves in a way that was disinterested but probably supposed to be threatening. “ _As you well know_.”

Roderick threw his hands up in exasperation. “Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement and obey _her_ orders on the matter!”

“Wait half a damn minute,” I interrupted finally, sick of hearing this argument dissolve into nowhere. The hand that had been covering my mouth flicked out to gesticulate between the Chancellor and the destroyed skyline where I theorized this temple should have been. “Don’t you have a goddamn line of succession or somethin'? Y'all are gonna' tell me that you’re gonna' take the time—that you do not have, I’ll remind—to hold an _election_? Right now? When y'all apparently don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground, because how much do you think that thing hangin' in the sky over there is gonna' grow in the time it takes for you to actually _do_ that?” My accent was bleeding through with a vengeance, but I found I really didn't care. 

For his credit, the Chancellor didn’t turn _completely_ red in the face, though his flush as he whirled a finger around to point accusingly at you was impressive. “ _You brought this on us in the first place!_ You have no right to question proper proceedings!”

I was full on _glaring_ now, and I really didn’t care as I growled, “Have you ever heard of a little thing called a _contingency plan_? Crisis response? Jesus, how fuckin'  _blind_ to possibility do you gotta' be to not have plans in place for if the top of your chain of command gets taken out?”

“This isn’t a military!” he snarled back. “And the Most Holy is—!”

“I swear to God, if you feed me that ‘ _divinely inspired_ ’ bullshit, I’m gonna' take your stupid hat and cram it down your throat.” Next to me, Cassandra choked on air. Leliana didn’t seem too far behind, while Solas was stoically raising an eyebrow, and Varric was lost to roaring laughter long ago. I didn’t care. “You don’t need a chain of command for _replacement_ —it’s why it’s called a chain of command! In times of crisis, people look to an authority figure instead of being autonomous—that’s just how things work. Without that, you have disorganization and chaos.”

“ _Enough!_ ” Cassandra finally seemed to find her voice, though she still appeared extremely flustered. For my part, I came back down to earth a little at her glare, and meekly shuffled back a few steps to stand between Solas and a still cackling Varric. “Sorry…”

The Chancellor sent me one final dirty look before sighing, appearing every inch the symbol of defeated I was sure he felt at the moment. “Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.” The warrior leaned on the table, shaking her head defiantly and sending short, bloodied strands of black in every direction. The braid that trailed around the crown of her head was coming undone with all the fighting. I frowned a little, for once annoyed that my hair wasn’t near long enough to pull back. Having the strands off of my neck would have been lovely right about now.

“We can stop this before it’s too late.”

“How?” Roderick scoffed. “You won’t survive long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers.” Things must have been bad, I thought, if he seemed willing to accept the idea that I may be able to fix this so soon after blaming it all on me.

“We _must_ get to the Temple. It’s the quickest route,” insisted Cassandra.

I’d admit, the idea made my insides roll around most unpleasantly. Solas and Varric seemed to share my distaste at the thought of going the direct route. I’d always been one to prefer raiding a house by going in the _back_ , thank you very much. “But not the safest. Our forces can charge as a distraction while _we_ go through the mountains!” I wanted to bound over to Leliana and loudly proclaim that I was all for that option, but the warrior lady had to be a downer.

“We lost an entire squad on that route,” she insisted. “It’s too risky!”

Chancellor Roderick attempted to plead his case one more time. “Please, abandon this now before more lives are lost!” Cassandra looked like she was going to argue, but the Breach flaring drew all of the attention _back_ to me. I had to hold my breath to keep from screaming as it once more felt like someone dipped my hand in acid, though for all my efforts, I knew my eyes were watering.

Once the pain and accompanying glowing subsided (but not Roderick’s suspicious glare—damn him!), I was suddenly asked, “How do _you_ think we should proceed?”

I looked at the two women with clear incredulity, gaping like a fool and not caring because…what? “You’re seriously asking me what _I_ think here?”

“You have the mark,” Solas shrugged, as if that explained everything, and I included him in my confounded stare.

Cassandra sighed. “And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…”

“I mean,” floundering, I pulled something akin to a shrug and a grimace. “I’m flattered? But…wouldn’t it make more sense for someone more…er… _familiar with the area_ made the call on which would be safer? And more tactically sound?”

Varric muttered under his breath, “To be honest, I feel like we’re losing either way.”

“It…will likely not make much of a difference, no,” Cassandra admitted with a sigh, though it was pained. I blinked a few times before turning to Solas.

“If I do somehow manage to close the Breach, will doing that take care of all of these smaller rifts and the demons? Or will they have to be sealed separately?”

He seemed…a little stunned initially, then as if he was running some sort of calculation, considering several angles before replying. “It is…possible. I am afraid that I cannot guarantee anything, however.”

I gestured generically behind me and throughout the valley we were situated in. “So, _theoretically_ , if I were to somehow close the Breach, everyone out there fighting those rifts without any way to close them would have infinitely better odds?”

“ _Possibly_ ,” he pressed.

“And the quicker it gets closed, the quicker that _possibly_ happens, correct?”

“…Yes…” Realization dawned on the Elf, and his face set into something I recognized as steely acceptance that I was going to do something potentially stupid and there was (probably) going to be no stopping me.

Only working together for a little under an hour and already they were learning!

Whipping back to face Cassandra, Leliana, and Roderick, I shrugged in a manner I hoped came off as more nonchalant as I was feeling. “Well, possibly settles it. I say we go straight for it—it may be dangerous, but if we can cut down on the amount of time…” Shrugging again, I let the sentence hang.

My opinion was weighed, carefully considered, and then diligently agreed upon with a nod. As we gathered ourselves and walked to the other end of the bridge and off to the left, Roderick mouthed something off to Cassandra that had me reeling. Her stiff grip on my upper arm was the only thing keeping me from retaliating.

Nothing kept the Seeker from jumping on _me_ , though, the second we were out of sight and earshot. “ _What were you thinking_? Roderick may be a bureaucrat, but he is still an important member of the Chantry! You cannot just _disrespect_ —!”

I yanked my arm out of her grip. “Sorry! I get…temperamental when I’m stressed. But, Christ, y’all were lettin’ him walk all over you!” Shit, my accent was slipping again. Reign it in, Kardon, reign it in…

Being from Kentucky had its weak points, though I did relish in not hearing the awkward laughter. The fact that the people here wouldn’t recognize how outwardly strange it was to hear a southern accent coming from a half-Japanese woman was, admittedly, a bit of a godsend—the questions when it bled through all my painstaking years of conditioning got old after a while.

 _Shit_ , she was saying something and I totally missed it. Must have been more tired than I thought. “He has status, regardless. Some level of respect must be awarded, no matter how much I loathe the fact.”

I shrugged, still miffed and completely unable to reign it in. It looked like my accent was staying for a while longer. “All y'all made it out that he ain't nothin' but a paper pusher. And sorry, he ain’t gettin' a damn thing done from where I was standin'.”

It didn’t placate her, but thankfully no one decided to do much to question me. Though that could have had something to do with the slope we were now being forced to climb. The snowdrifts were up to my knees. Sourly, I glared down at my boots when some of the deceptively fluffy flakes got jostled _into_ my boot. I was already so cold that I didn’t really feel it, but it was more the point of the whole thing.

I didn’t know how long we were walking—twenty minutes? Thirty? Regardless, it didn’t take too long to reach where the bulk of the troops were fighting off demons and fade goop. And it didn’t sound at all pleasant from where I was standing, trying to tune everything out and gripping tightly to the strap of the fresh quiver brimming with arrows someone had thrust into my hands back at the Forward Camp when I wasn’t looking. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen death before, but this wasn’t _death_ , it was _war_ , and if I had wanted to see _war_ , I’d have signed up for the army, not _grad school_ , and—

Sighing, I began mindlessly firing at demons when we came upon the epicenter of the battlefield. There was another rift, more demons to fight, and people to save. I could lament about being thrust into a warzone later, just as I could try and cope with all this weirdness later. Everything but action could wait.

I didn’t even have to think once all the demons were gone, I just reacted. It was a little more difficult to make the connection with the rift than it was that first time with Solas’ help (though he staunchly refused to admit that he’d done anything the three times I’d prodded him on the way to the camp). However, the thing was closed in a few breaths, and the soldiers conversely breathed easier. Well, except for the dead ones…y’know, ‘cause they were…

…God, I needed sleep…

“I hope they’re right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here.” Blinking, I turned towards the voice and realized that Cassandra had been having a full on conversation with some guy decked out in shiny armor and some fur. His sword and shield I’m sure would have been impressively shiny had they not been stained a dull grey from demon blood. His hair, too, looked like it normally had a nice golden sheen to it, lost to the grime of a battlefield.

Scoffing, I shook my head, grip tightening on my bow. “You're not the only one.”

The two went back to exchanging a few words, but I didn’t want to listen. Instead, I leaned against something that looked like it had once been a pillar and braced my head in my hands, rubbing my temples. “You’re becoming quite proficient at that.” I glanced up, and it was Solas, keeping a dutiful eye on you and nodding to where the rift had been.

I didn’t try to smile this time. “It gonna' be enough, though?”

“That,” he replied quietly, “I do not know.”

“Let’s hope it works on the big one, yeah?” Varric added. He was tapping on Bianca’s stock, like he was nervous. I couldn’t blame him—I was doing the same to my bow.

Cassandra began leading us to what remained of some large imposing structure—the Temple, I supposed. I couldn’t quite figure out why that walk felt more like some sort of funeral procession.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fun little note I learned about in my nonverbal communication class. Somatic retraction in extreme cases is known as the fetal position. It's an innate, instinctive defensive posture. You know how when someone's disappointed or "bummed out", they'll walk with their limbs loose and head down? That's also a form of somatic retraction. It's defensive, but it's defensive in a retreating type of way, if that makes sense. Solas' posture and how he tends to lean/hide behind his staff in the cutscenes where he's seen with it always came off to me as this sort of hunched defense.


	5. The Things You Think You Cannot Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Suddenly, I found myself hoping that someone had a backup scholar, because I was pretty damn sure I was going to murder their current one."
> 
> ***  
> Elisabeth gets irritated with Solas. In her defense, closing the Breach and trying to profile a voice is stressful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So, I was on a bit of a writing roll lately and was able to get this out to you in a reasonable timeframe! Yay! Also--holy shit, you guys. The amounts of kudos I've gotten is insane. AHWMS has roughly the same (actually more) amount of kudos, comments, and hits at 4 chapters and something like 17k words as my 20 chapter, 117k story does. You are awesome. Seriously. 
> 
> Anyway, In this chapter, Elisabeth kinda sorta profiles some things. Yes, profiles like in Criminal Minds. I tried to avoid it, but the way her back story plays out, she has education in criminal behavioral theory, at least. Also, I'm endeavoring to be a profiler myself, so my mind as I'm researching this stuff both for class and for the sake of research is going to put it in somehow. Yes, I profile my video games. Yes, I'm a nerd. I'm aware. It's great.
> 
> *ahem*, back to the point. She profiles a little, but I tried to keep it short and relatively nonspecific. Also, I drew a picture/tarot card type thing for Elisabeth. I was sketching, it started to look good, so I fleshed it a little bit. Also, and this goes for any of my stories, but if anyone happens to draw or otherwise makes anything relating to AHWMS, please share! I'm interested to see what other people come up with, particularly in how what I imagine matches up to what you guys imagine.
> 
> Well, that's enough babbling for me--enjoy!

* * *

“ _You must do the things you think you cannot do.”_

-Eleanor Roosevelt

* * *

 **“Broken”** didn’t even begin to describe the desolation that used to be the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I, despite coming from a religious family, was not religious myself, and though my familiarity with this faith in Thedas could barely even be considered passing, that did not give the ruins any less weight. I understood how fiercely belief could inspire a movement, a moment. Religion was powerful, and to see a religious structure so completely and utterly decimated was humbling in the worst of ways. One did not have to know the faith to understand that this was not going to be relegated to ripples in a pond. No, the Temple of Sacred Ashes was an earthquake triggering a mess of tsunamis of the like I suspected Thedas had never—or at least had rarely ever—seen before.

It was…chastening, I supposed, to look down at my hand and see that same, sickly green glow that came from the Breach. And terrifying. And impossible.

 _Alright_ , I shook my head, _that was enough of that_. Actually close the hole in the sky, Kardon. Then freak out about there actually _being_ a hole in the sky.

I guessed my brain’s fixation on the surrealism of the Breach was an effort to not acknowledge the death that also covered each rock like a smothering blanket. I was understandably trying to distance myself from a tragedy I had no real recollection of being a part of despite being marked to the contrary. But crossing this… _God_ , I didn’t even know what to call it—warzone? No, these people hadn’t even been given the chance to fight back. I could see it in how their charred and blackened maws screamed at the sky, arms clawed at their faces, forms cooked how they died, unnatural fire burning where their eyes had been like they’d all seen something they weren’t supposed to, seen the face of evil to never walk away again.

Hell, I worked closely with federal law enforcement. I had for twelve years, and I worked in a research department that studied topics that held all the malice and unapologetic cruelty humanity has to offer. I was _not_ an innocent-eyed university graduate with green-nosed dreams of heroism and happy endings just pure enough to be stomped on—I had seen my fair share of _bad_. But this? This wholesale slaughter? These had been peace talks, or so I’d been made to understand. Peace talks to end a bloody war. I doubted because of this that each and every one of those people buried and burned in the carnage were innocent, doubted even a majority were, truly, in the grand scheme of things. But had any of them deserved a death like this? Did _anyone_ deserve a death like this?

I tried to be respectful crossing that open space. What had it been? Courtyard? Vestibule? I doubted it mattered—it was a graveyard now regardless. Still, I tried to fall away from the reality of what I was seeing, but…

My stomach gave a violent lurch when I caught sight of a tiny, blackened hand forcing its way out of a rubble pile. It was too small to be fully grown, but not quite a young child. Pre-teen, likely. They were all but fused into the molded rock melted and then re-solidified from the heat and force of the blast. But it put something into perspective for me— _there were children here when it exploded_ —and my feet suddenly felt like lead, hands clasping over my mouth as if that would keep the bile back. It didn’t, not really.

_There had been children here!_

I could handle a lot, and this definitely wasn't the first time I'd seen children the victims of violence. Nothing changed that _everything_ was harder when a child was involved. I would know. Kids and crime were an unfortunate statistic that I found crossing my desk far too often. But this?

A choked sound must have emerged from my throat, because the others stopped where they had gotten several feet ahead of me. They all seemed unfazed, and I assumed the sight was not new to them. No doubt they had investigated the Temple long before I awoke. Or maybe they were just that numb to everything.

“Nameless?”

I was ashamed to admit the breath I gulped down was shuddering and weak. “I… There…” A hundred different ways I could air all of my grievances with the presence of the tiny hand flew through my mind, angry and pissed off and righteously defensive. Namely one phrase kept repeating itself, over and over.

_Why were there children here?!_

I said none of it.

“This is where you walked out of the Fade, and our soldiers found you,” Cassandra said finally. I think she was attributing my horror to associating the carnage as something I had possibly survived. She was wrong. I didn't know how exactly to inform her of that fact. “I told you that you were the only survivor.” I swallowed down my retorts, but it was like gulping razor blades. She had. She _had_ told me that.

_But no one told me that there were kids here!_

“I…I know,” I breathed, shaky, faltering only a bit as I tried to pull my mask of professionalism back on. It was harder than before. “Sorry, just… _seein'_  it is a little different.” I was stared at with disbelief. It didn’t matter. I could question this…this… _this_ later, when we were all safe and I had earned the luxury of raising hell.

No more words, and I was thankful I didn't have to mask my voice as well as my face. _Breach now, emotions later._ It looped through my head, a mantra I barely could listen to when every fiber of my being was screeching to do the exact opposite.

 _There had been children here_ , and while this was unforgivable and horrible before, that fact just made it _so much worse._

Perhaps the lingering silence, awkward as it was, was just as well. I couldn’t for the life of me find words to describe the rift that spawned directly below the Breach, feeding it almost or maybe being fed _by_ its proximity. Whatever this place had once been and whatever purpose the former chamber had served was undistinguishable. There were no bodies, at least below what I suspected to have been a balcony. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad one.

Cassandra pushed up next to me when Varric made some sort of comment I didn’t hear. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?” I peered at her, certain my expression was perhaps too deadpan, but if I focused on emotions, then _people_ would be involved and hurt and I couldn’t deal with that right now. Crazy as everything was, this _was_ important. I was _not_ going to compromise myself this way.

“No,” I answered emotionlessly, but honestly. “But this needs to be done.”

Solas agreed. “This rift is the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and it is more than likely that the Breach will follow.” More than likely. Well, he was being optimistic, at least.

“You think so?”

“ _I know so_ ” was what his eyes and clenched jaw told me. Curiously, he only answered with a tight, “Yes.”

 _Thinking_ and _knowing_ are two very different things. Why he wasn’t sharing his confidence was anyone’s guess. I wasn’t going to pry, there wasn’t time.

Leliana was behind us. I didn’t know when she got there, but her and Cassandra shared a _look_. “Then let’s find a way down.” Before anyone could even process the idea of protesting, the armored woman was stomping off to the right. She was used to getting her way, at least in some respects, that much was clear. She didn’t check if we were following her. She just expected it. And we were, which almost said more than her confidence.

“ _Now is the hour of our victory_ ,” a deep, unnatural baritone suddenly echoed deafeningly. I jumped, as did everyone else. “ _Bring forth the sacrifice._ ”

Cassandra was quick to turn to me and demand, “What is this? What are we hearing?” My instinct was to snap sarcastically “ _probably someone being murdered_ ”, but I was spared having to retaliate when Solas thankfully tried to appease the angry woman’s curiosity. His guess to me seemed far too close to a certainty for comfort in hindsight.

“At a guess?” He asked sharply. “The person who created the Breach.”

I asked, “How?” It was part out of lingering defensive sarcasm and part from genuine curiosity.

He shrugged. “The Veil is torn here, catastrophically so. It is likely the influx from the Fade left an imprint.”

While I technically understood less than half of that (and I was almost positive that he’d dumbed it down for me), I tried to clarify, “Imprint? Like a recording? That’s handy…” I wondered offhandedly if that had been deliberate. Could it be replicated? How sophisticated were these people, really? Maybe they weren’t technologically as sophisticated as I was used to, but if this “magic” could record audio…what else could it do?

And why did that make me nervous?

Making our way around the ledge, we eventually found ourselves in front of a cluster of red crystals that had somehow punched their way into a corner like the equivalent of rock daisies. That wasn’t eh weirdest part. My brows met my hairline when I realized that they were such a bright crimson because they were actually, really, _literally glowing_. Naturally, I wanted to touch them. Reaching out a curious hand, I jumped when stubby, gloved fingers wove around my wrist and almost violently tried yanking me away. Varric’s eyes when I met them almost looked panicked.

“Don’t!” he exclaimed. This drew everyone’s attention. “It’s red lyrium, Nameless.”

I blinked. “…And…?” Realization seemed to dawn pretty quickly after that. Seemed he had forgotten my… _situation_.

“I don’t know what it’s _doing here_.” The semi-asked question didn’t linger—it flew straight and true to Cassandra. Maybe I was being a _bit_ petty, but her dumbfounded look at being demanded she answer a question to which she did not know felt like sweet revenge. I mean, she’d only done it to me _how many times_ in the past few hours?

"Magic _could_ have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple—corrupted it.” Solas frowned like he didn’t quite believe it himself. Corrupted? Well…that was cliché. I also was beginning to wonder if the elf frequently tried to save people from questions they couldn’t answer, or if it was just the situation.

I studied him a moment. Nope, he looked professor-like. Scholarly. He was enjoying this, being the one with the answers.

Varric only scoffed derisively and released my wrist with a significant look of warning. “It’s evil. Whatever you do, _don’t touch it_.” My eyes went a little wide because his voice was _venomous_ to an extent that startled me a little. I nodded a bit sheepishly. Red crystals were bad. I wasn’t exactly from these parts—who was I to argue?

“Okay. Evil. Don’t touch. Got it.” His mouth twitched like a part of him wanted to grin but couldn’t quite do it, so I did it for him. It was tight and nervous and probably closer to a cringe, but he seemed to appreciate it as we continued to precariously step around glowing crimson rocks.

The echoing voice, however, decided we were being too quiet, and I tried to pay closer attention as he started speaking again. “ _Keep the sacrifice still_.”

“…He’s too calm.” I was thinking out loud, analyzing, profiling to an extent. It was like all those behavior classes I took were tunneling their way to the forefront of my mind without my bidding. Work mode turned itself back on in a blink. “And ‘ _the sacrifice_ ’? That’s distancing. He’s making this person an object instead of a person to make inflicting harm, or whatever it is he’s doing, easier. I don’t…with how calm he is, inflection, and the fact that he’s obviously ordering _someone_ , I’d almost hazard that he’s doing it for _their_ benefit, not his. To keep whoever it is from second guessing what he’s telling them to do.”

Leliana’s sudden appearance shouldn’t have surprised me. But I jumped anyway. “You got all of that from a few sentences?”

“It…,” I sighed. “I'm  _trained_ to get all of that from a few sentences. Inflection. Intent. Subtleties. It’s…it wasn't my _job_ , per se, but I was always a bit more hands on with interviews and consults than the other researchers because of my interest areas. I researched sexual crimes including kidnapping and sex trafficking, and that involved interviewing trafickers and kidnappers that had been caught, try to figure out why they did what they did, how, things like that. Sometimes you have to focus on the language, delivery—it was my job to figure out what _wasn’t_ being said from what _was_.” _Everyone_ exchanged a look. I didn’t know if it was good or bad, and I didn’t get a chance to ponder it as another voice tore through the air. This one had an accent like Leliana’s, almost French.

“ _Someone, help me!_ ” It wasn’t a cry. It was a _screech_. A wail. This woman was terrified, and I looked down at the ground. It reminded me of a class I took in undergrad, the one that cemented my desire to work in law enforcement and later research. It was a class on serial murder, ironically. The first thing the professor showed us was a 911 call, and on it was the caller being murdered. Violently. He showed it to impress the seriousness of the course, that it wasn’t anything to joke about and the cases we were going to look at were real people who had died in horrible ways or been through terrible things. It was nowhere the first time I’d heard visceral howls like that—I’d _made_ them myself, years ago when…I didn’t want to think about it. But it was the first time it really…I don’t know, _hit_ me. The screaming sounded something like that recording, and I felt my hair stand on end like it had in that auditorium.

Cassandra looked like someone had shoved a ghost at her. “That was Divine Justinia’s voice.” The emotion in her words, thick in her voice made me, despite my better judgement, lay a hand on her armored shoulder. Something in her eyes looked a little broken when she peered up at me.

“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, but it was all I could say.

She waved me off, likely embarrassed I’d caught her distress. “What else can you tell?”

Running a hand through my hair, I heaved a sigh and thought about the voices. Something was off with the wording. There were definitely multiple people, but…sacrifice? I felt like I needed to know more about the different cultures here, society, beliefs, but…

“…It’s a group.” I said, as confident as I could. “He was ordering someone to present the Divine, or whoever else he was using as his ‘ _sacrifice_ ’, to him. That indicates another person, but with how calm he was, he was leading. That, his tone of voice…he was being too _formal._ I’m pretty sure this is more than a partnership. Your guy’s got followers.”

Leliana asked, grim faced and too serious for comfort, “Is there _anything_ else?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” I wanted to snap, “ _you’re testing me._ ” I kept those thoughts back.

“Sacrifice would indicate ritual, and I’d ordinarily propose a cult or a conflicting ideological belief between your Chantry and whoever these people represent,” I said, outwardly calm but really wanting to grit my teeth because this was _not_ the time to try and figure out what I could do. “However, that being said, I’m assuming the idea of ritual here differs from mine. You all have magic—I’m assuming that can regularly involve ritual?”

Everyone kind of looked between Solas and, interestingly, Cassandra for approval. The elf was the one to speak with a nod. “Yes, you are correct on that assumption.”

“Right. This Temple had obvious religious connections, from what I understand this war had religious overtones. However, is it safe to assume that an attack of this proportion here could have just as much of a political impact?”

Cassandra snorted. “That is putting it _lightly_.”

“You could also be looking for a political group,” I shrugged. “I can only assume so much because I’m only so familiar with the playing field, so to speak. If your politics are influenced by religion, then you could be looking at something with a mix of both. At this point, I’m making educated guesses. You have to fill in the blanks.” Somewhere off to the side, Varric whistled low and long. I probably would have laughed had the situation been different.

Leliana didn’t outwardly seem as impressed. If anything, her body language was more guarded, and I rolled my eyes. “And I suppose you suspect me even more now, don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” she answered slowly, carefully, considering like a hawk looking for her next meal and trying to decide if the morsel in front of her was prey enough. “You were the obvious threat before.”

“I woke up bound and surrounded by an armed guard.” I was over it, I was over it, I was over—fuck it, I was still pissed. “ _I got that part_ ,” I growled.

Obvious shuffling didn’t drag myself nor the redhead from our staring contest, not until a clearing throat made me glance over at Varric. “Uhh, not to interrupt, but…” All he had to do was motion to the Breach, and it was like all of Leliana’s anger just dissipated to resolve. At least she had her priorities straight…kind of. Immediate threat first, interrogate survivor later.

In hindsight, profiling the voice was probably not a good idea. I realized how involved that could make me seem, but after spending the past hour and a half or so telling myself to be in work mode, I couldn’t really turn it off.

Still, the dwarf seemed to knock everyone out of the haze we’d been caught up in and we started moving again. We had to jump off a small ledge which my knees did not appreciate, which my brain then did not appreciate because it only added to all of the reminders that I’d had this afternoon that I was getting fucking _old_. We had to walk around the base of what had to have been a massive statue of a woman—it seemed important, but the creepiest thing was that parts of it were…floating.

Floating.

I blinked a few times and, no, the rocks were still there, tumbling tumultuously, seeming less corporeal the closer in altitude they got to the Breach. I wondered how that worked, exactly. Did it stop at a certain point? It had to be within the atmosphere, but what was on the other side if someone managed to get high enough up to go around it? Was it like a black hole and just sucked everything in? It obviously had enough of a pull to levitate objects, but it wasn’t actually taking them in. It was spitting things _out_.

This thing was a floating conundrum.

Just as I opened my mouth to fire off some stupid question about it, my hand started glowing and burning again. The Divine’s disembodied screaming erupted again from nowhere…followed by _me._

“ _What the hell is—HEY! STOP_ ” And I did freeze, because I couldn’t doubt that that had been my voice. My brow furrowed, totally oblivious to Cassandra whirling on me with anger burning behind her eyes, unrestrained this time. Why didn’t I remember…?

And then some sort of shock wave from the lower-set rift, and…I covered my eyes, but when I looked back up, there were figures. An elderly woman in robes—her arms were spread to her sides, bound in some way, and she was struggling. This _must_ have been the Divine, but to my dismay, her attacker wasn’t clear. He was…misshapen. Almost as if he wasn’t human or elf or dwarf—were there other races here? I wasn’t given time to ponder.

My own little holographic self suddenly reared up on scene, a bit frazzled but otherwise no worse for wear, dressed in the same clothes as I found myself in when I remembered waking up. “ _What the hell is—HEY! STOP!_ ” My gun— _my fucking gun!_ —was whipped from the holster on my right hip under the jacket and leveled at the shadowy blob that was the Divine’s assailant. Sig’s muzzle stayed true and level despite the fact that I looked pale. I didn’t know whether it was from the distortion of the image or if it was because of nerves. I was betting the latter—I’d been told that my eyes, normally a rich brown, almost seemed red when I was afraid, and from the hazy image, they looked quite red.

“ _Run while you can! Warn them!_ ” Justinia cried, but I barely paid her a glance, probably just registering her as a potential casualty and as someone I had to protect. It seemed…more than the usual care I would have thought to place. I knew that I never handled that kind of hostage-stalemate-type of situation very well. It was a quick glance, but I could see what it conveyed—I had felt like I couldn’t let this woman die, absolutely _couldn’t_.

And yet I did anyway, apparently. Some hero that made me.

The figure didn’t even break form, just calmly turned and pointed what looked to be the silhouette of a bony finger at me. “ _We have an intruder. Kill her. Now._ ” I took note of that. Clipped orders, inclusion of the group. There wasn’t much to go on, but this guy didn’t even seem to be putting the effort into securing the loyalty of the group. I needed more, but that still said a lot.

With a sharp sound, the rift shifted again and the images faded away. I wasn’t surprised that Cassandra accosted me as soon as she got next to me. “You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?!”

“I don’t remember anything!” I was almost pleading. I really didn’t, and it was upsetting me undoubtedly more than it was them.

Solas, once again, saved me from having to argue my case with a handy dandy little magic-y explanation that I again barely understood. “Echoes of what happened here…the Fade _bleeds_ into this place.” There was that distracted tone, more of an absentminded observation than an explanation. This man could hold his own, I’d realized that much. But I had a feeling what I’d seen of his intelligence barely scratched the surface.

Damn. Should’ve held my cards closer.

“This rift is not sealed, but it is closed—albeit temporarily,” he explained, fully turning to the rest of us and directly addressing the group rather than the air. “I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely.” I blinked at him, now taking back my earlier comment about his intelligence. Was…was this guy serious? Open the rift?

“I’m sensing a caveat?”

He nodded. “Doing so will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Attention…I was assuming not the good kind.

Immediately, Cassandra began barking orders and coordinating scouts and soldiers with Leliana. I was probably pale in the face when I turned away from watching her efforts with Varric back to the elven mage who knew so much.

“Hey, Solas?” I held up my left hand when said elf flicked his eyes to me. “Any pointers for using this to _open_ a rift?” He smiled, but it was a grim thing. I’d almost have called it sardonic.

“Reverse engineering.”

I stared. Deadpan.

Reverse…engineering…

Suddenly, I found myself hoping that someone had a backup scholar, because I was pretty damn sure I was going to murder their current one.

* * *

 


	6. When the Road Darkens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Christ, what am I getting myself into? If they find an Inquisitor, I’m calling him Inquisitor Torquemada. At least once. I have to. I swear I will not let this opportunity pass me by."
> 
> ***
> 
> In which Elisabeth realizes that she's really not dreaming, thank you very much, and that watching "History of the World" may come back to haunt her in the form of catchy songs about the Spanish Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we go anywhere, I just want to point out that the tense change to present in this chapter IS NOT A MISTAKE. IT IS DELIBERATE. I'm subtly trying to emphasize that this is where Elisabeth realizes that everything that's happened to her wasn't a dream. It's actually HAPPENING, in the present, current moment. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry this took so long. School. Then life. Hectic. Insanity. Gah. I'm back now though! Also working on like three other fics (Bleach, D. Gray-man, and Elder Scrolls x Dragon Age, respectively), but back! Gonna be working full time over the summer, hopefully, so I have no idea how often updates will actually be, but they'll hopefully come at a reasonable rate. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“ _Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens._ ” 

-J.R.R. Tolkein, _The Fellowship of the Ring_

* * *

 **~ _Thedas – 9:41 Dragon_** ~

* * *

 **I don’t even remember** being dead to the world when I suddenly blink myself awake. Everything hurts for some reason, though my mattress is pleasantly softer than I recall it being. I didn’t dream, so I count that as a win—and I am up before my alarm, it looks like! This is a rare occurrence. Though…I blink hard, trying to focus my gritty, drowsy eyes. My room is lit and I could swear I turned out my lamp before passing out into a medicine-induced haze. Also, why does my ceiling look brown? And vaulted? I have a popcorn ceiling that I’ve left white since I bought the place…

My fingers curl at my side almost absently over my palm, and another heavy blink ensues to squeeze the sand out of my eyes. I suddenly remember the dream I had. A rift…green and bright, searing pain in my hand, elves, dwarves, demons, gashes in the sky…

I blink again, and the cabin-like, rustic ceiling doesn’t change. Another violent squeeze of my eyes. No change. The aching in my limbs from overuse registers again, the chill in the air despite the sounds of a fire crackling (and that is another clue—my house doesn’t have a fireplace). It isn’t a dream. That single realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and my lungs draw a sharp inhale that I barely manage to prevent turning into a sob.

My right, unmarked hand flies up to try swiping the tears from my eyes before they can fall. I remember reopening the rift and a lumbering monstrosity emerging that I quickly learned is called a pride demon. All thundering steps and lightning and spiky hide. We barely as a group had managed to bring it down, and I suspect my inexperience had played into that quite heavily. Everyone had been forced to expend a good bit of energy on keeping me alive to work my metaphorical (or literal in this case? The mark _is_ magical, right?) magic on the Breach.

Not that I really know much beyond that point. Sniffling back my regret, I can hazily remember being thwacked on the head despite everyone’s best endeavors. I don’t doubt by the pain rippling across my scalp that it landed me with a concussion, and I’m pretty sure sealing the Breach only made things worse… I should’ve died, probably. At least, I feel like I should’ve.

I wonder how long I’ve been out. Unconscious with a probable concussion—I doubt it was short. Time is… _fuzzy_.

Suddenly, I hear a gasp and a crash. I bolt upright reflexively, my wide eyes meeting the terrified ones of a young elven woman. A small crate lay on the floor where she dropped it. “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

I’m taken aback a little. The poor girl looks terrified. “Hey, calm down. It’s okay—what’re you so scared about?”

She squeaks. Literally _squeaks_. “You…you…” She creeps her way closer to the door by inches. She shakes her head, dislodging several dark strands of hair, though her hair next to her nervousness seems to be the least of her concerns. “You’re back at Haven, my lady. They’re saying you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

Something like relief causes me to slouch down a bit, much to the dismay of my ribs. I hiss through my teeth as I hold them tightly. “So they’re _happy_ with me now?”

“I-it’s all anyone has talked about for three days,” whimpers the girl as she shuffles forward to retrieve the crate she dropped. “Breach is still in the sky, b-but that’s what they’re saying.”

“Three days? Christ, what happened exactly?”

I didn’t think her eyes could go any wider. Apparently, I was wrong because they do. “O-oh, milady, I don’t know! I’m just an apprentice.” My gaze flicks to the crate and back to her face. It’s an elegant and graceful face, exotic to my standards, but I’m not from this world—how would I know? She’s not human, that much is clear. Her eyes are a slight too big, and her nose a bit more pointed, cheekbones a tad higher, irises unnaturally blue. Her ears are the biggest give away to the fact that she isn’t human, but she does a rather good job of curtaining those behind her hair. I have a nasty suspicion as to why she does that. I don’t want to be right.

“Are you an apprentice to a doctor?” I ask.

She gives me a weird look, but nods nonetheless. “Y-yes, to the healer. My name is Myra, milady.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” I smile, trying to look reassuring. “My name’s Elisabeth. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I think my normal nod of greeting, a remnant from an old childhood habit of bowing (thanks, Mother), startles her. Myra jumps as she sets the crate on the bedside table.

Blushing, the girl allows her jaw length hair to block her face as she rummages through the supplies on the table. She removes a few stoppered bottles and mutters, “It’s not proper, milady.”

I wave her off with a scoff. Forcing myself into sitting properly, I grit my teeth through the ache it causes. “Please. It’s proper if I say it is. I’m no one special, kid.” As if I’d spoken some grand taboo, her hands suddenly fumble with the jars in the box. A few of them noisily clatter against one another as she drops them, and I’m not sure if her gasp of alarm is more geared towards my words or the fact that she’s being clumsy with glass. It could be a bit of both, I suppose,

“But you’re the Herald of Andraste!” she cries. Myra’s look is as if I had committed some grand offense. It’s one I’ve seen before—telling grieving parents that their child, who you promised to safely return to them, is dead earns you some pretty impressive looks of incredulity—though, it is a tad different than the brand I’m usually met with. It’s horrified, but not in the sense of loss. It’s horrified in the sense of shame, maybe something akin to reverence that makes me shift uncomfortably for reasons not entirely related to whatever injuries I’m sporting.

I don’t know what this Andraste is, or how I’m a herald of it…them…whatever. “ _Don’t talk them out of the delusion—talk them_ through _it_ ” is the first thing that pops into my mind, and I’m admittedly a little chagrinned by it. I don’t think Myra is crazy—if anyone’s experiencing a psychotic break with reality, it’s probably me—but I feel like there’s some nugget of truth to the advice I learned a long, long time ago as a child. Myra is not crazy, but from the little she’s said and the way she’s said it, she appears rather set in her ways. I feel like I’ll get more information out of someone else. Cassandra, perhaps? Myra’s the type to vehemently resist me saying I’m not what she thinks.

Still…I have a bad feeling about this.

Her hand is trembling when I tap my fingers against the back of it companionably. “I would still prefer my name, if it’s not too much trouble? Please?” Myra’s eyes are watery as they look back at me, shocked and awed and maybe something in between that I can’t fathom. She reminds me of someone, now that I think about it. She reminds me of another young girl, perhaps several years older than she should be, but the temperament that I recall is the same. Meek and lost and just a little desperate, some fire died down to a spark that could be relit if only the right breeze were to fan it. And I think the reason why that has me trying not to tear up is because the girl Myra reminds me of was a victim. Worse yet, she was one I couldn’t save.

“A-alright, Lady Elisabeth.”

I force a smile as Myra begins rebandaging my ribs. It’s probably some sort of sign, I think. No one I meet just reminds me of a person anymore. All I see are victims.

 

* * *

 

 **I’m rebandaged and given a tonic** for pain within an hour or so, and I wait ten minutes after Myra packs up and scurries her way out of the cabin I’ve been placed in to emerge myself. I’m not ready for the veritable lines of people outside my door, nor the murmurs that follow me to the Chantry where the apprentice healer told me Cassandra would be (after a few stops for directions, of course—this town isn’t large by any means, but I don’t know where anything is). I don’t see any other remotely familiar faces along the way, and it makes me pull the knit sweater I’d been given closer to myself. I’m so uncomfortable right now it’s not even funny—and it has absolutely nothing to do with my injuries. There’s still a green, sparking glow to the sky over the mountain. A green, sparking glow that shouldn’t be _possible_. _All this_ shouldn’t be possible.

Nope. Nope, not thinking about it. Later.

I slip through the too-large double doors and into the cathedral. It’s small for one, I’ll acquiesce, but the vaulted ceilings and stained glass and archways cannot be mistaken for anything else. This building, while muted, is meant to be a work of art. I marvel at it for a time. Cassandra is supposed to be in a back room, so I make my way down the aisle. It’s clear there had once been pews and an altar front and center, with the apses meant for study space, but due to the demands of the recent disaster, they’ve moved benches and nonessential furniture out of the building in favor of cots for refugees. I pass an injured soldier and have to look away. Was he wounded in the initial explosion or after? It still makes me remember the tiny, blackened little hand poking out of the rubble at the Temple. That in turn makes me remember my anger. Children were there.

I suddenly hate whomever blew up the Temple even more than I already did.

“ _Have you gone completely mad?_ ” The voice of that Chancellor from the bridge rings out from behind a door at the very back of the Chantry, muffled through the wood but still audible once I’m close enough. I blink at it. “ _She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by_ whomever _becomes Divine!_ ” My expression sours quickly after that. So, the Chancellor with the stupid hat is _still_ on about chopping my head off, is he? I seem to vaguely recall that. I think my mind is still scrambled from the concussion and the general muddiness of anxiety.

“ _I do not believe she is guilty_ ,” Cassandra’s voice is quick to defend. I’m a little shocked. She didn’t seem thrilled with me that I remember. In fact, I’m pretty sure the woman hates me. Maybe. Again, muddled.

Roderick growls back, “ _She_ failed _, Seeker! The Breach is still in the sky, and for all you know,_ she intended it this way!”

“ _I do not believe that!_ ”

“ _That is not for you to decide!_ ” God, someone _please_ stuff his stupid hat down his throat and be done with him already. “ _Your duty is to serve the Chantry_.”

I can practically _hear_ Cassandra sniffing indignantly, staring down her nose at the Chancellor despite being a bit shorter than him. “ _My_ duty _is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours._ ” Oh, burn! I crack a grin, deciding that Cassandra isn’t all that bad.

Before my nerve can leave me, I decide to raise a hand and give the door a few good raps. They echo, loudly, and anything Roderick was going to say in response is cut off as I crack the door open to peer inside. As soon as he catches sight of me, the Chancellor’s scowl deepens something terrifying, an accusing finger pointing straight at my face. “Chain her! I want her prepared immediately for travel to the capital for trial!” I just quirk a brow. He’s posturing, and Cassandra knows it if her scoff is anything to go by.

She waves to the two men decked from head to toe in plate armor that I somehow missed standing in the room. “Disregard that, and leave us.” Much to Roderick’s chagrin and my unending amusement, they listen to the woman in armor, slinging a hand across their chests in unison, bowing, and exiting the room as they’re told. The door swings shut behind them with a resounding _thud_ , trapping me in this space with the Chancellor, warrior, and silent as the grave Leliana, but I find I don’t mind so much. It seems most everyone’s ire is focused on Roderick, save his own which is squarely on me. I’m not the only one wanting to do cruel things with his hat, apparently.

His attention does leave me for a moment, though, to narrow his eyes at Cassandra. “You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

I snort quietly. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Leliana, who gives me a look. I just shrug slightly in response. I can’t help finding the Chancellor’s attempts at grasping authority amusing, alright? The more he talks, the more I’m thinking that I was correct in assuming he’s using the chaos as a power grab. And the more I realize this, so to do I realize that I’m not the only one aware of it.

Politics will be politics no matter the world, it seems.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will _not_ ignore it,” the woman responds in a dangerously low tone, almost prowling to stand next to the older man. Roderick’s reaction triggers my brain to switch into “work mode”, scrutinizing every detail, getting the most out of what isn’t said. I think I see a bead of sweat trail its way down the back of his neck, and the way he’s shifting tells me he’s uneasy with her proximity.

Stepping forward myself, I keep my arms crossed defensively and pitch, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to close it like we wanted, but I did what I could. Damn thing nearly killed me, too.”

“Yet, you live!” he spits, and I get the sudden realization that nothing I say is going to win this man over. Oh well. “A convenient result insofar as you’re concerned, hmm?” My hands get thrown up in the air quite quickly after that.

“Yeah, sure, _great_ plan. I’ll create the stupid thing, nearly die in the process, then when I wake up as a prisoner, convince them that the pretty mark on my hand (which is also killing me, by the way—huge hiccough in and of itself, too) can close the Rifts, then make a _deliberately_ piss-poor attempt to seal it, nearly die again, people will worship me, and I’ll be trapped in ‘ _enemy_ ’ territory afterwards with no easy means of escape because I’ve just made myself an apparently vital and crucial piece to this whole puzzle. Perfect plan. The cost-benefit analysis here is _flawless_.” My voice is unendingly dry. The unasked question is “ _How fucking stupid are you?_ ” Roderick’s face goes that shade of red again, like back on the bridge. I’m impressed—I thought that was partially from the cold before. I guess that he just turns red enough to rival a beet when he’s angry. Who knew? It’s probably not healthy. I’d hate to see this guy’s blood pressure.

The Chancellor mutters an angry aside, “There have been worse plots.”

“Have a care, Chancellor,” grits the female warrior through clenched teeth. “The Breach is not the only threat we face.” He sends me a sidelong glower, and I know full well he’s thinking of me in that regard. I send him a cheeky grin in response that makes the glaring worse until Leliana moves to stand next to Cassandra. The redhead’s motions are almost predatory, eyes glinting under her hood. This is a woman used to hunting her prey, and I’ve a feeling that prey to her isn’t necessarily wildlife in nature.

It makes me shiver just a teensy, tiny bit.

She mutters, “ _Someone_ was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did _not_ expect. Perhaps they died with the others—or have allies who yet live.” She’s staring _right_ at him.

Well. That was gutsy. I resist the urge to whistle lowly in stunned appreciation.

Roderick sputters, face dropping like someone just spit at him. “ _I_ am a suspect!?”

“You,” she nods, affirmative, “and many others.”

That last part sounds like a formality. I narrow my eyes a little because I’m not quite sure how smart that is. She seems to be focusing on Roderick as the culprit, but another part of me wonders if that’s a deliberate front or if Leliana actually thinks he organized it. I’ll agree it’s plausible as anything, but something about blaming the Chancellor doesn’t seem quite right. Something’s off. That damn nagging feeling again. Leliana is a tricky little thing, I’ll give her that.

Roderick scowls at me. “But not the prisoner?”

“I heard the voices at the temple. The Divine called out to her for help,” Cassandra defends me with a firm shake of her head. She looks at me expectantly, wanting some sort of contribution from me I don’t feel inclined to give. Instead, I stay where I am, out of the way, arms crossed, face as placid as I can make it. Observing. The warrior’s eyes flash with something akin to frustration, but the whiny Chancellor is quick to speak before she can even think of saying anything.

“So her survival—that _thing_ on her hand. A coincidence? Don’t be daft!”

My eyebrow raises almost of its own accord when Cassandra simply shakes her head negatively and corrects, “Providence. The Maker brought her to us in our darkest hour.”

Another expectant look. I break stance to run a hand through messy strands of hair. It’s the marked one, and I send it a sour look as I finish the motion and lower it back to my side.

Damn thing…

I’m grinning sardonically, if only to let her know that I’m partially teasing. “Remember what I said the last time someone tried to feed me some divinely inspired bullshit?” Thankfully, she doesn’t take it badly and cracks a smirk herself.

“I’m not wearing a hat,” she replies wryly. “In any case, I will not pretend you were not exactly what we needed precisely _when_ we needed it. Whether you believe or not…”

Leliana smoothly cuts in. “The Breach remains, and your mark is our only hope of closing it.” I consider her words before lifting my left hand to look at the scar again. It’s still glowing, but it’s more subdued. No pain. And it hasn’t grown any larger, barely taking up the diagonal width of my palm. I flex my fingers to reassure myself that I still have feeling in the limb, but it also seems as if there’s…more to it. I don’t really know how to explain it. Like…a connection to something beyond myself, which I guess makes sense considering what I can do with it.

“That is not for you to decide!” I have a feeling that Chancellor Roderick’s protests are really just token by now. He _has_ to realize that everything he says is pretty much going in one ear and out the other.

Cassandra suddenly strides up from where she’d been busying herself with…something in the back of the room, and slams a heavy, metal-encrusted tome down on the large table in the center of the chamber. I jump at it, not expecting the sudden noise. “You know what this is, Chancellor?” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “A writ from the Divine giving us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn!”

I cough to hide a very out of place laugh, because underneath my curiosity, I have images of Mel Brooks as Torquemada dancing with nuns and drumming on knees. I knew letting my father talk me into watching _History of the World_ would come back to haunt me somehow…

If they find an Inquisitor, I’m calling him Inquisitor Torquemada. At least once. I have to. I swear I will not let this opportunity pass me by.

No one seems any the wiser to my mini fit, as Cassandra continues her tirade. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or _without_ your approval.”

Much to my furthering amusement, Roderick doesn’t say anything else, confronted with the irate, determined warrior. He does glare at her something fierce, but it’s toothless as he flees the room immediately after. The door clicking shut after him has a poetic finality to it that makes me snicker.

Leliana sighs and motions to the book left on the table. “This is the Divine’s directive: Rebuild the Inquisition of old, find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now? No Chantry support!” She’s musing to herself by now, I think. I just continue to stand awkwardly. I’m unsure what I’m supposed to do in this situation.

“Do we have a choice?” Cassandra asks rhetorically before turning to me. I gulp a little. “We need your help, if you’ll agree to lend it.”

“Y’know, just a few days ago, you wanted me dead.”

“Circumstances change,” she doesn’t hesitate to answer. I’m slightly taken aback, but eventually, I grin and move to accept her outstretched hand.

Before I can make contact, however, I pause. “One condition. When this is all over…will you help me figure out how to get home? Or at least how I got here?”

The two women in front of me exchange a look, but it’s over before I can analyze it. Finally, they nod. “You have a deal, then.” The dark haired warrior gives me a lopsided smile, stretching the scar on her face and making it more prominent.

“Welcome to the Inquisition.”

Christ, what am I getting myself into?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I really did make a human male Inquisitor for a playthrough and named him Torquemada because I couldn't get the song from History of the World out of my head. Because the Inquisition's here, and it's here to stay!
> 
> No? Okay. Sorry. I'll be going now.


	7. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elisabeth goes full sociology professor. No shame.
> 
> __  
> AKA: The chapter where the AUTHOR goes full sociology student via her character. No shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my edits are finished! If y'all wanna go back and read through what I changed, be my guest, but I tried to keep things fairly similar. 
> 
> As mentioned in the summary, I went FULL sociology nerd, shamelessly. There's a dump of social theory here, just as a warning. If you want to skip it, then that's fine (it's obvious when it starts, near the end), but if you do want to read through it and have questions, please let me know. "And Hereafter We May Suffer" is from Elisabeth's point of view, and Elisabeth DOES NOT explain things in layman's terms very well--she gets HELLA technical. So if you have questions, I'm more than happy to answer them. This is actually how I practice. 
> 
> And if you are a fellow social sciences person and are familiar with Symbolic Interactionism, please let me know if I explained it correctly or if there's anything you would add! Learning experience, and all that. 
> 
> So. Yeah. Gonna go jump right in. Enjoy the result of my potato chip, ramune, coffee, D.Gray-man, irritation-fueled writing extravaganza.

* * *

“ _Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves._ ”

 

-Henry David Thoreau

* * *

**~ _Thedas – 9:41 Dragon_** ~

* * *

**Stepping out of the Chantry is almost a relief**. My mind buzzes with information—names, faces, titles, plans, more names—and I take a fraction of a moment once I can see the scarred sky to just breathe. My right arm twitches with the weight of stress, but I know that a good night’s sleep ought to fix the issue. Not that I know when I’m going to be awarded that luxury, exactly. From the looks on the faces of the people I just met within this newly-minted Inquisition, sleep is going to be something scarce for everyone involved.

Maybe if I tell them that it’s a health issue, they’ll leave me to get some shut-eye? Nah. I glance at the Breach and decide that a seizure or fifteen won’t hurt me too bad in the grand scheme of things. That thing in the sky is probably going to kill me first. Somehow.

Besides, I think as I grip the bag the Inquisition’s diplomat, Josephine, was kind enough to hold onto for me. I actually have some of my medications. God only knows why or how, but when I fell through the Rift that brought me to Thedas, I had a fully-packed duffle bag with me. A few changes of clothes, food, water, a couple of books that must have been grabbed haphazardly from my bookshelf, my medications, my tablet, and a few other odds and ends. Little reminders of home, of a place I’m not even sure I miss. I know I miss my research, I miss the people I worked closely with on some level. People I suppose I can call friends more than colleagues. Within a few weeks, I’ll probably miss my father, or at least our bi-monthly phone calls. But I don’t know if it’s _enough_. Home is…an abstract thing to me. Always has been.

Sighing, I shoulder the nondescript black duffle more securely and make towards the cabin I’d been told is mine. Haven is a small village by all accounts, but the streets still wind and twist, cabins interspersed and crammed together in equal measure depending on where within the walls they are. Something tugs at me over that, something that labels this layout unfamiliar and on a level wrong, but I don’t understand why. I’ve never heard of Haven before, I think with my brow furrowing in confusion. Haven’t I? It’s impossible. I’m in another _world_. Perhaps it has something to do with my lost memories. I obviously have no recollection of ever being in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, yet according to the “vision”, I quite clearly _was_ there.

I love mysteries. I consider myself rather good at solving them. That I can’t piece this one together irks me on an almost existential level.

Reaching the cabin, the duffle is tossed unceremoniously on the floor as soon as the door closes me off from the adoring outside world. They don’t hate me anymore. In fact they consider me a damned religious icon in a lot of cases. A miracle. A chosen. A savior. It makes my skin crawl. The advisors that Cassandra and Leliana had introduced me to, Commander Cullen and Lady Josephine Montilyet, had said as much. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about all of them. Cullen seemed nice enough, but he was haggard. I could have profiled him, but I refrained out of respect. He was introduced as the commander of what forces the Inquisition claims, though even by his own admission, that is a rather small number.

Josephine is almost too rigid and formal for me, but I’ve never been one to be very buttoned up unless forced. I can see, however, how her diplomacy makes her worthy of the title of ambassador, so I figure I respect her on that merit alone. From what of the workings of Thedas they’d told me, the Inquisition is in dire need of some expert politicking to get past the reputation it’s been shoved towards by the Chantry.

Other than those two, the other designations didn’t particularly surprise me. Cassandra being some type of regaled hero is mildly shocking, but it seems to fit. Leliana being a spy also isn’t too left-of-field, though her official title is Seneschal. She’s almost too shifty, too guarded for that to pass. At least, so I initially thought, but the rundown of Orlesian politics that I was also given seemed to straighten that out and make it seem a little less suspicious.

I scrub a hand over my face and pour myself a cup of water from the pitcher on the end table before digging my medications out from the bag. The duffle in and of itself is curious—it means that I had time before appearing here to pack for the trip, though I have no _goddamned_ memory of doing so. Memory problems aren’t unknown to me, but complete amnesia is something I’ve never experienced. I frown as I shove four lamictal tablets down my throat along with half of my daily dose of topiramate, quickly washing them down with several large gulps of water. I’m grateful beyond measure to have my medication, but how exactly my things are with me, I don’t know if I want to think about at the moment.

Another thing, too—my meds will run out at some point. I peer at the bottles cautiously. They’re both recently-filled 90-day supplies, but if I’m going to have to wean myself off of them to avoid withdrawal, then I need to begin doing so soon. Could someone recreate them? I brush the thought to the back of my mind as soon as it passes, something for another day. I feel like anyone being able to copy the different compounds would be a stretch. Do they even know what epilepsy _is_ here? It was well documented historically back home, but I’m not in Kansas anymore, so to speak.

Running a hand through my hair, I wince at both the snags and the greasy feel. I spot a washing basin on the other side of the room, and while it’s not a hot shower, it’s better than nothing. It doesn’t take me too long to get out of the beige outfit (ugh, no, this is being replaced by my own clothes), and even shorter work of rinsing the actually still warm water through my chin-length hair and across my body. I spot a washrag and bottles that contain something like soap that I use to scrub away the past few days of yuck with _extreme_ prejudice. Someone must have put a care package in the room, because the basket with the soaps also contains something startlingly similar to a toothbrush and paste, a hairbrush, and a hand mirror. Probably Josephine. I’ll have to thank her later. The fact that there are familiar hygiene products in this strange, medieval fantasy world makes me almost giddy. It’s kind of pathetic, but I really don’t have it in me to care.

I dry myself and dress in a pair of black jeans that don’t look very denim-y (somehow I think that odd textiles aren’t the best idea to be traipsing about in), a grey undershirt, and a deep blue cable knit sweater that is several sizes too large but oh-so-comfortable. The boots that I woke up in are pulled up my calves after a pair of wool socks I apparently packed as well are yanked on, warm and comfortable. This village is absolutely _freezing_.

…actually, how did I know to pack winter clothes when it was June back—

Nope. Not going there.

Pulling out the mirror to begin brushing out my hair so it can dry properly, I take a few seconds to scrutinize the face that stares back at me. I look tired, I’ve lost weight if the hollowness of my usually rounder cheeks speaks for anything. I’m half Japanese, though I take more after my mother, and the Caucasian (read: weird mix of Scottish, Welsh, and Norwegian—thanks, Dad) in me isn’t very noticeable. Dark almond eyes that have the beginnings of fine wrinkles also look sunken and the paler than usual skin bruised from stress and exhaustion. The faint laugh lines around my mouth almost look tired. My face in _general_ just looks tired, framed with the layers of wavy dark hair beginning to be streaked with silver. I look…haggard, confused…

 _God_ , I think wryly, joking, _when the hell did I get so old_?

The thought strikes me still, able to see my duffle out of the corner of my eye. “ _Maiyoikondatte tachidomaranai de…_ ” I laugh at myself as the words pull from me, dragged from the memory of a song I haven’t heard in far too long. That I’m thinking of it now is amusing, but it fits. _Never stand still when you’re lost_. Yes, that’s it. I look _lost_.

Well, if I’m lost, I guess I shouldn’t be standing still, should I?

Shaking my head to pull myself out of my thoughts, I quickly run the brush through damp but finally _clean_ locks. I passed a tavern on my way back to my cabin, so I sling on my coat hanging on a rack in the corner and dart my way back into the cold. As quick as I can to avoid my damp hair from getting _too_ frozen, I surge through the blessedly warm doorway to find a tavern bustling with soldiers who don’t pay much mind to my entry. I think it’s because they just don’t notice the door opening, but two people _do_. Solas and Varric are seated at a table, apparently having a sparse conversation over their own dinner, and the dwarf waves me over far too enthusiastically for my liking. I don’t see any other option, considering every table has someone sitting, and I don’t feel keen on asking a soldier for a seat and run the risk of them falling all over themselves.

I’ve only been awake for half a day and it’s already old.

“Nameless!” Varric cheers once I shuffle my way over. Solas looks up from his bowl of what looks like stew to give me a nod of greeting that I return quickly before plopping in a chair next to the elf.

Elf. That’s going to take some getting used to. Don’t have those in Virginia.

“I do have a name, you know,” I say, a little shocked that it’s the first thing out of my mouth but willing to just go with it.

Solas shakes his head wryly. “You did not give it to him soon enough.”

“I’m noticing.”

“Why, Chuckles, I never expected you to throw me to the wolves!” the dwarf in question gasps, mock affront as he holds a gloved hand to his…copious amounts of chest hair. I sputter a little at the nickname much like the first time I heard it—Solas does _not_ look like a “Chuckles”—and the mage raises a brow. There’s a hint of amusement to the action, but his back’s a little too rigid, mouth a little too drawn. He’s extraordinarily uncomfortable, but I don’t really understand why. Is it because he’s a mage? Cassandra and Leliana had explained the whole thing between mages and Templars before letting me leave the war room, and I can definitely understand his discomfort. A few people are eyeing him grumpily, even _I_ can tell. Though, I can’t blame him for being on guard. I’d gathered from both the advisors as well as from on the mountain that the man is an apostate and has never, ostensibly, been associated with a Circle of Magi (believe me, the advisors had gotten an _earful_ from me about the whole how-mages-are-treated thing). There’s an element of apprehension to being so out and open about having magical ability that I can perhaps not understand, but sympathize with.

I cough a little to break the silence and my thoughts. “So, do you give nicknames to everyone you meet, or are we just special?”

“It depends,” he shrugs, shit-eating grin on his face. This man is such a compulsive liar, it’s not even funny. “Sometimes it takes a few tries, Lady Herald.”

My nose wrinkles. “Ew. No. My name is Elisabeth; I’d prefer you use it.”

“Sooo…Lizbeth?” His grin gets impossibly wider. A bowl of the same stew that seems to be the house special around here is set in front of me by the barmaid, and I give her a nod and small smile of appreciation…which seems to fluster her and cause her to scurry away. Nice. _Not_.

“ _No_.”

“Beth?”

I glower at the dwarf, and then at the elf who is shaking in silent laughter, some of the tension in his shoulders gone. “ _No_. I asked you to use my name.”

Varric chortles, “But I am!”

“My full name—not parts of it!”

“So, I shouldn’t call you Lizzie?”

Spoon halfway to my lips, I don’t even have to exaggerate the recoiling grimace that twists my features. “ _NO_. I swear to God, if you ever try to call me _Lizzie_ , I will _end_ you.”

Solas’ eyebrows dart up to where his hairline _would_ be…if he had hair. “A bit of an excessive reaction.”

The spoonful of stew is shoved into my mouth so I don’t have to answer right away. When I do, it’s an annoyed grumbling. “Not really.”

Varric sips from a mug of something vaguely smelling alcoholic that I hadn’t even noticed was in front of him. “Ten sovereigns says it was a tragic love story.” I send him a weird look that’s probably seriously offset by the sight I’m sure I make thanks to the food I’ve shoved into my mouth. I quickly force myself to swallow my large, scalding mouthful of stew if only so I don’t look so much like a starving chipmunk.

I haven’t eaten in at least a few days—sue me.

“Why do you think it’s a tragic love story?”

“It isn’t?”

Aghast, I exclaim, “No!” A little calmer, I clarify, “No, that’s not it at all.”

“Then why the vehement revolt?”

I scoff, rolling my eyes and waving my spoon in a disinterested flopping motion. I can feel my inner lecturer trying to dig her way to the surface. “Symbolic Interactionism.”

The elf and dwarf share a look. “Come again?”

“Symbolic Interactionism,” I say, and I’m only _mildly_ chagrinned to hear my voice go all professor-y. “It’s a theory (or supplemental theory, depending on who you ask) which postulates that the development of an individual is a social process. It’s achieved through a give-and-take with people, objects, events, ideas, et cetera. The individual assigns meanings to these things, or symbols, in order to determine how to act. Meanings are passed down and spread via interpersonal interactions, as interactions in and of themselves revolve around individuals reaching an understanding through language or other systems. Sharing of symbols helps with that understanding, example being turns of phrase or customs across cultures. Although, meanings associated with symbols can change and fluctuate even within societies based off of individual experiences.

“For example…well, fire’s a religious thing here, right? Let’s use fire. Flame to a devout Andrastian is going to mean something different to and encourage a different behavioral response from a devout worshipper than it would in someone who was, say, trapped in a burning building. Even if the individual trapped in the fire is also Andrastian and may also associate fire with the comfort of religion, after having a traumatic experience such as being in a housefire, _those_ emotions and responses are from that point on going to be associated with fire as well. The fire is a symbol here. It has different connotations to different people or groups of people in different situations, often drawn from past experiences and built upon by future experiences. Before the fire, the Andrastian associated devout religiosity to the symbol of fire, and her interaction with it, let’s say reverence, was dictated by that associated meaning. Afterwards, she may still, to some extent, see the fire as something to revere, but a new layer of caution or fear is added to that reverence, or in some cases overwrites it entirely.”

“Alright,” drawls the dwarf, befuddled look on his face that the elf mimics only _slightly_ less. “What does this have to do with you hating the name Lizzie?”

I smile. “Everything. Lizzie, Emily, Andy, Johnny, Chrissy, Jackie, Bethany, Ellie, Amy, Tommy—is there anything you notice about those names? Anything that stands out? What about Johnathan, Christin, Mark, Michael, Rhiannon, George, Michelle, Elisabeth, Amanda, Andrew?”

Solas’ brow raises again. He’s resting his forearms heavily on the table now, the pinch at the corners of his eyes appearing still mildly ill at ease. But the curiosity is outweighing it, if only slightly. “Aside from the gender differences?”

“In _addition_ to that, I suppose, but yes.”

Silence reigns for a few seconds, and I’m mildly surprised to note that Varric answers first. Solas is _smart_ —I can tell this as easily as I can that the table is wood. Not that Varric comes across as dumb, just…something. I don’t know. “The first set. Most of those were nicknames. So that’s what this is? A nickname thing? I still don’t get it.”

Laughing a little, I smile, “Not quite. That first list of names. They all ended in a long ‘e’ sound, right? Amy, Jackie, Johnny…?” They nod. “When I say the name Tommy, what’s the first thing to come to mind?” A pause where the two exchange wary glances, as if silently trying to shove the responsibility of answering this question they don’t know the right response to on the other person. It’s fucking hilarious.

“I guess one of the village kids? I’ve heard his mother calling him Tommy.”

“Do you know his full name?”

“Thomas, I think…” And just like that, realization dawns. Not on Varric’s face, though, but on Solas’.

“The first line of names,” he starts, his narrow eyes seeming to almost _sparkle_ as he begins to suspect he’s comprehending the lesson I’m trying to teach. “They can be seen as those belonging to children.”

My grin is full blown and toothy, now, much like whenever the students in the handful of classes I’ve taught at VCU finally got a concept I was trying to get across for an hour. “And we have a winner! Yes. The long ‘e’ sound at the end of a name lends to something called infantilization. Back home this was very common to see with women. A woman who goes by Jackie is far less likely to be respected by her colleagues (particularly _male_ colleagues, though that’s also fed by gender stereotypes, and it does happen with female colleagues) than a woman who goes by Jaquelyn. Johnathan is more likely to be elected into political office than Johnny. Those types of names, or even just the _sounds_ and the way they’re structured are an example of symbolic language. The meanings attached them are typically childish. Those feelings associated with the names dictate in a lot of cases how a person will react to an individual with that name, the above examples being reactions that are patronizing or with a lack of respect.”

Solas hums. “So you do not like being called Lizzie because you are afraid people will not take you seriously?”

“I’m not afraid of it,” I snort. “It’s happened. I learned that there’s truth to that theory the hard way. I worked briefly as a professor before doing research full-time, and when I would introduce myself to a class as Lizzie instead of Elisabeth or Dr. Kardon, the levels of disrespect and interruption increased substantially. I’m all for a relaxed and casual class environment, but this went beyond that. Colleagues would do it, too, particularly when I attempted submitting and defending course proposals. It’s a lot of the reason why I left teaching. Well, that and the Asian jokes, though those were blissfully few and far between.”

Varric huffs a startled laugh. “Asian jokes?”

I shake my head quickly to wave it off. “It’s an ethnic stereotyping thing. Don’t worry about it. It’d take me far too long to explain the nuances necessary for you to get what it is in the first place.”

“I hardly see why your students or your colleagues would disrespect you for any reason,” Solas frowns. It’s a little too exaggerated, but there is some smidge of sincerity to the emotion behind it, so I accept it for what it is. “You are obviously quite intelligent and knowledgeable in what I am assuming is your field?”

“Thank you,” I smile a bit. “I’m technically more of a criminologist, but criminology is a derivative of sociology and several other social and behavioral sciences. But criminologist is more accurate. Or, well, I was. From your reactions, I take it those don’t exist here?”

“Uhh,” whistles Varric as he thinks. “I don’t think so, Professor. What are they exactly?”

Deciding not to comment _for now_ on the new nickname, I elaborate, “Sociology is the study of society—its structure, functions, development. It’s very, _very_ broad. You can have a sociology of pretty much anything that goes into more depth on a particular area. Sociology of religion, family, sports, education, economics, and on and on. It applies scientific investigation and research methods to studying and answering question about society, either on a macro or micro scale. Symbolic Interactionism is considered to be a micro-sociological perspective since it deals with interpersonal interactions as opposed to interactions between groups and institutions, to give you an idea. Criminology, my specific area, is the study of causes, control, management, extent, nature, consequences, and prevention, among others, of criminal activity and behavior. It’s fairly interdisciplinary, though originally heavily influenced by sociology, and draws from psychology, psychiatry, social anthropology, and a few others.”

The dwarf blinks. I count them. “…I’m going to pretend that I understood more than half of that…” He blinks again, and I count some more.

My brow quirks as if to say, “ _I know you understood all of that, you lying little weasel_ ”, but I let it slide. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been out of teaching for longer than I thought. It’s been a while since I’ve had to…not use technical language to describe my fields.”

“You must be fairly high-class,” Solas begins, a test in his voice, “to be so educated.”

I snort, “I’m from a decidedly lower middle-class family. My…er… _home_ —,” I am _NOT_ going to say “world” in public, thank you very much, “—requires thirteen years of compulsory public schooling, approximately from ages five to eighteen. After that, it’s the individual’s choice. But I went to undergrad on student loans and scholarships. Five years and a double major later, I was in grad school on research grants and more scholarships for another four. European Ph.D programs saved me from any more years of torment, bless them.” My father bitched about me going to grad school in the U.K. only until I graduated a year to three sooner than I would have in the states with both a Masters _and_ Ph.D. Progression programs are the shit. He quit complaining pretty quick after that.

“Ph.D?”

“Doctoral,” I clarify. “The highest level of education you can get in a specific field. It typically goes associates and bachelors, considered undergraduate degrees, and then masters and doctoral degrees which are graduate degrees. The specific labeling of them sometimes varies by area of study, but the gist is the same.”

Solas nods slowly, “Yes, there is a similar system of education here. The terms are somewhat different, however.” My eyes narrow.

“Interesting. There are a lot of cultural parallels here…it’d be interesting to talk about sometime, if you’ve a mind. That and if you have any idea how I find myself in my…er… _current situation_ , let’s say?”

He inclines his head in acquiescence, apparently (hopefully) understanding the point I’m trying to make. Varric does, too, from the way his eyes tighten almost unnoticeably.

_Do the similarities mean our worlds are connected, somehow?_

It’s not a thought I find pleasant, for some reason.

“Of course, Herald.” I wince at the title, but from the way his lip twitches up…damn elf was mocking me! Before I can glower, he continues on as if he wasn’t just trying to aggravate me. “While we’re here, would you be averse to allowing me to check on your mark? It appears stable for the moment, but now that you are awake, it would be better to check.”

I don’t even have to think about that one. I see the logic. “Of course. Can we do it here, or would you rather go somewhere else?” I get a curious, blank look from the elf, and a sly one from the dwarf. My voice is deadpan when I elaborate. “The people on that side of the tavern have been giving you a death glower since before I walked in here. Four of them look terrified, two angry, and six have been handsy with their weapons for the past ten minutes. I’m assuming you’re going to use magic to monitor the Glow-y Scar of Destiny on my hand, and I’m only concerned that they might take that as an excuse to pull a sword of twelve on you.”

There’s a pause before the dwarf is roaring in laughter alongside Solas’ amused chuckling (…Chuckles, I get it now). I huff. “What? I feel like it’s a legitimate concern!”

“And one I appreciate, Herald,” the mage responds, eye glimmering with something I…can’t quite read. It bothers me. I’m usually able to read everything. “However, to check on the mark, I need not do anything invasive or flashy.”

Allowing myself to nervously chortle, I rub the back of my neck with my right hand as I extend my left along the edge of the table for the elf to examine. “Good to know. I’m still…learning the ropes, I guess.”

“I’ll let you know, then, Professor,” Varric mumbles as he takes a swig from his mug of ale, “that they’re not itching to attack Chuckles because he’s a mage. Well, mostly.”

I feel the wash of… _something_ , something intangible, flood over my palm as Solas gently takes it into his hand and begins prodding it with magic. It’s an odd feeling, not dissimilar to the way it felt on my skin when it was still frothing, when the Breach was still chomping at the bit to gobble everything up. The only obvious difference is that it doesn’t hurt. I’d almost consider it pleasant.

“Mostly?”

He admits, “It’s part of it. I’m sure the Seeker and Lady Nightingale regaled you on how mages are seen—”

“—And it’s bullshit, but yes, continue,” I interrupt, stony faced. From where he’d been passively bent over my hand in study, Solas’ head jerks up to stare at the side of my head. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, not having realized just how out-of-place my beliefs on magic would be. The advisors should have been an indication, in hindsight, but I’m beginning to realize _just how bad_ magic is treated here.

Snickering, Varric continues, “Yes, well. Nonhumans aren’t seen very well by humans. You just casually strolled in here and dropped yourself at a table with a dwarf and an elf.”

I frown, “So? You’re people, too. The fuck do your _ears_ or your _height_ matter?” Solas’ hand tenses almost unnoticeably around mine, and I file it away for later, along with the stiffening of Varric’s duster-covered shoulders. _Everything_ , they both tell me wordlessly, though in different ways. Double (triple?) sided racism in the world of Thedas, perhaps? Interesting.

“You are an important figure to them now,” Solas says softly, the feeling of magic tingling on my skin ceasing as he releases my hand, done with his examinations. “They will expect to see themselves, their values, in you.”

Scoffing, I move to gather my now-empty bowl and stand. “Well. I’m _not_ them. I’m not from here. _They’re_ going to have to get used to disappointment, aren’t they?”

Ignoring the reactions of Solas and Varric, I angrily stomp the entire way back to the glorious warmth of my cabin before I realize that the reason I sat at their table in the first place was to inform the two that we were going to be leaving for the Hinterlands in two days, to retrieve some Chantry mother.

And I had completely forgotten to tell them.

I stare at the back wall of my tiny living space in blank disbelief at myself, the sudden urge to throw something at my own head becoming apparent…

…three…two…one…

“ _CHIKUSHOU!_ ”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JAPANESE TRANSLATION:
> 
> CHIKUSHOU: lit. "dispicable person", when used as an interjection, it's more taken to mean "son of a bitch", or "damn it". 
> 
> ___
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Also...did any of ya' catch the wolf joke? Huh? HUUUUUHHH??? *does a stupid wink-y thing* 
> 
> No? *cough cough* A-alright then...
> 
> As always, if you have questions about anything, please ask. I'm always happy to answer questions. 
> 
> On an off note, has anyone been watching Gone? It's the docuseries on Spike TV about the missing women in Chillicothe, OH. I go to school 45 minutes or so south of there, and as I'm a criminology student, it's been a pretty big deal here (my town's also got some shit going on that's possibly connected to it, which contributes). I'm just curious if anyone else is watching it--it's available for streaming if anyone is interested and wants to check it out. I recommend it.


	8. All That We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My own brow rises, wondering if I may have found a fellow history fan, maybe even someone with as much appreciation for culture and society in them as me. Sure, I have gotten the impression that Solas could possibly be a bit…narrowminded and stubborn on a few topics from the sparse conversations we’ve had, but the possibilities…
> 
> At least, the possibilities weren’t he suspicious as fuck."
> 
> ***  
> Elisabeth and Solas have a conversation about serious topics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so, so sorry this is so late. It's been like six months and I really don't have much of an excuse aside from my life got fucking batshit crazy and I either didn't have motivation to write or time to do so. This isn't as long as my chapters usually are, but I wanted to get something out for you guys for waiting so patiently and so long. 
> 
> I also would like to run something by you guys. I recently started watching BBC's Sherlock. It's probably my new favorite show. But I've realized since watching it that Elisabeth would fit extraordinarily well in that universe, so I'm currently toying around with a spinoff featuring Elisabeth in the Sherlock universe. I wouldn't include DA at all, save maybe a sneaky easter egg or two, but I'm curious how many of you who are also Sherlock fans would be interested in reading that. If enough of you are, I can post a blurb from what I've got written so far to give you an idea, and for some feedback before I go full-fledged on this thing. 
> 
> Anyway, I won't keep you guys from your chapter any longer. Enjoy!

* * *

“ _All that we do, all that we are, begins and ends with ourselves_.”

-Arno Dorian, _Assassin’s Creed: Unity_

* * *

  ** _~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_**

* * *

  **I find myself standing** outside of Solas’ cabin about a day and a half later and after a metric fuck-ton of heavy, weighty consideration. Clutched to my chest is a soft leather bag filled with the things that were packed in my duffle, a gift from Josephine for the road that won’t stick out like a sore thumb. I’d considered going to Adan, the alchemist here, with my concerns, but after learning that the elf is to essentially be our field medic on the road to the Hinterlands, I decide that speaking with him makes the most logical sense. I don’t like it. I think the elf is shifty, both from his body language and from that nagging sense of knowing that permeates everything I observe here, but I am humble enough to push that aside for sense. I shift nervously as I wait for him to respond to my crisp knock, but I’ve put this off long enough. We leave tomorrow, and I feel I am safe to assume that the road will not provide much in the way of privacy for such a conversation.

He appears a bit wry at seeing me standing at his door once he opens it, and I’m sure I flush lightly in embarrassment. I realize with a tinge of shame that I’ve honestly been a bit of a shut in since I woke up. I blame the shock. “Ah, the chosen of Andraste. Blessed hero sent to save us all.” The grin that pulls his face is almost sarcastic, and I can’t help but grin. It is good to know that I’m not the only one who thinks this whole thing is bullshit.

“Gosh, blessed hero you say? Got any dragons for me to fly in on or something? Or even a familiar? Something like a _komainu_ or _ōkami_ , perhaps. Got to make an impression, you know?”

His laugh is full and deep, and probably would have been quite pleasant to listen to had I not been aware of how much this man hides. Wariness outshines appreciation in this case. “I would have suggested a griffon, though they are sadly extinct. I have no knowledge, however, of the two you mentioned.” I shake my head more in chastisement of myself than anything else. My Japanese heritage is something that I simultaneously treasure and shy away from for…reasons. I adore the mythology, though, despite this. I also do like to talk about it. It is just slightly uncomfortable.

However, I smile ruefully at the opportunity anyway. “ _Komainu_ are mythical lion-dogs said to ward off evil spirits in Japanese Buddhist culture back home. Statues of them are often placed in shrines—one is typically depicted with its mouth open, while the other with a closed one. It represents the first and last letter of the Sanskrit alphabet, which is supposed to be symbolic of the beginning and end of all things, and the sound they make, _Aum_ , is sacred in several religious and cultural traditions.”

“Fascinating,” he says, brows at where his hairline should be. His eyes are sparkling like they were the other night in the tavern when I went sociology nerd on him and Varric. I suppose I’m kind of doing it now…shit. “It sounds as if your home has a rich history. The second creature you mentioned—what of it?” My own brow rises, wondering if I may have found a fellow history fan, maybe even someone with as much appreciation for culture and society in them as me. Sure, I have gotten the impression that Solas could possibly be a bit…narrowminded and stubborn on a few topics from the sparse conversations we’ve had, but the possibilities…

At least, the possibilities weren’t he suspicious as fuck.      

“ _Ōkami_ are one of my personal favorites, also Japanese in origin.” If there was one thing that stuck with me through childhood, it was definitely the folklore around _ōkami_. I’m also testing something. “They’re wolves considered to be messengers for the _kami_ spirits. _Ōkami_ would also offer protection against things like wild boars which would go after crops. They’re rather popular in Japan and highly honored. I’m particularly fond of the legend of the _okuriōkami_ , or escort wolf, who would follow lone individuals through the woods and ensure they safely reached their homes at night.”

Sure enough, I catch it. The little twitch on his face that has happened the last several times I’ve heard wolves mentioned around him. I don’t know why, but something about their reference affects him. “That is…a different take on wolves than I am used to. I’ve not commonly heard them referred to as guardians. Only creatures to be feared.”

“That’s a shame,” I frown. “They’re beautiful creatures, at least I’ve always thought.”

He smiles apparently before he can catch it if the startled look that flashes around his eyes says anything. “Then you have a refreshing opinion, _da’len_. The culture from which these myths emerge is yours?” The subject change is noted, as is the name in a language I don’t know. I assume it to be elven, though I could be wrong. From the inflection, I also figure that the accent is as flowing and water-like as the one this man wields when speaking English. Common. Whatever it is here.

“Partially. I’m half Japanese, half American. I was raised in America, though Mother was adamant that I know of my Japanese heritage as well. She insisted that I took so much after her and looked more Japanese than not, so it was the least I could do to honor it. And, to be fair, America is more of a cultural melting-pot. At least in theory. I’ll not go there—we’ll be here all week. Another sociology thing, and we’ve learned already how I get with that.” I smile almost apologetically.

“Your home, as I said previously, sounds to be rich in history and culture. And academics, to add.”

I smile almost ruefully. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Though I don’t doubt Thedas is as well. Sometimes it is difficult to see the beauty and the depth in something the more familiar it is to you.”

“Wise words,” Solas advises approvingly. I don’t want to grin at it, but I do. “Though I have kept you in the cold long enough. I take it you sought me out for something other than a cultural discussion?”

Blushing at how sidetracked I got, I nod. “Ah, yes, my apologies. I had a few questions I wanted to ask you, if it’s not too much trouble. I’d like to get it out of the way before we head out for the Hinterlands.” He quirks a brow at me curiously but does stand aside from the door to usher me into the warmth emanating from his cabin. There is also something else not quite tangible in the air as I step over the threshold that makes me think magic may be at play as well. I’m really not complaining—outside is freezing, inside is not. That’s all I need to know.

“Of course. I take it this is a sensitive matter?”

The bag is clutched tighter to my chest, and I don’t miss that his eyes have already scanned the thing several times as if trying to discern my reasons for bringing it. “Uh, yeah. It’s medical, if I’m honest. It is my understanding that you will be acting as a field medic of sorts while we are travelling—I felt it best to speak to you first.” I can see by the tilt of his head as he motions towards a pair of chairs situated by a table laden in neatly-stacked books that he’s definitely curious now.

He allows me to be seated first in one chair before following in the opposite. I continue in almost a nervous ramble, settling the bag on my lap but not relinquishing my grip on it. I’m aware of how defensive that is, keeping the bag between myself and him like a shield even with the addition of the table, but this subject is never something I’m keen to talk about. “I…well, back home I was diagnosed with a chronic disorder. I’ve had it since birth. I take medication to treat it, and I by some weird miracle came through that rift with my meds with me. However, the supply I have won’t last forever, and I need to know if there’s a way to continue treating it here, or even replicate the medication I have currently. It…I’m not going to lie, it could be a serious safety hazard for not only myself, but you all if I were to have an episode while dealing with a rift.”

Solas’ brows furrow as he leans forward in his chair, mind appearing as if it is racing. “Could you explain this condition to me?” I swallow thickly. I hate talking about this. Dammit, I’m thirty-eight years old, for Christ’s sake! I shouldn’t be such a child about this anymore, but I am, and it infuriates me.

“It’s called epilepsy where I’m from. Basically, I have chronic, recurring seizures. The electrical signals in my brain misfire and disrupt my nervous system. Specifically, it occurs for me in my left temporal lobe.” I tap the left side of my head above the ear and see him nod in understanding. “I have focal awareness, focal impaired awareness, and myoclonic seizures.”

He folds his hands beneath his chin in thought, sharp, narrow eyes trained on me in a way that makes me shiver a bit. “I do believe I have heard of this, though I’ve never seen it myself and it is rare from my understanding. Could you elaborate on what, specifically, happens when you experience a seizure?” I breathe out a sigh I wasn’t aware I’d been holding in. Recognizing is good. Rare is not ideal, but it’s better than never.

“For the focal awareness seizures, I maintain consciousness. For me, they manifest with emotional disturbances—sudden mood swings, panic attacks, things like that. Sometimes visual distortions, though that’s uncommon. They don’t typically last very long, and at the current moment with my medication, I haven’t experienced one in years. With a focal impaired awareness seizure, I do go into a state of altered consciousness. They’re more like…staring spells. I’m usually relatively unresponsive, and it’s as if I’m experiencing everything through a tunnel, so to speak. Coming out of those exhausts me, and I tend to have difficulty speaking afterwards. I get some warning as I experience sharp headaches beforehand, but that’s not a perfect indicator. Myoclonic seizures are singular jerking of the limbs. I get them in my arms mostly. No loss of consciousness and they themselves are harmless, though I have fallen and even hit myself because of them.”

Solas hums. “That does sound concerning, and I appreciate you feeling comfortable enough to inform me of this. It is definitely good to know.”

“It’s an inconvenience,” I mumble with a sigh. My hand runs through my hair out of habit of exasperation. “Which is why I’m trying to be as proactive about it as I can. Something like this wouldn’t just be hazardous to me—it’s hazardous to the group as a whole, potentially. As much as I find it distasteful, I also understand that the image I present, how people view me as a symbol, is important. This, the epilepsy and the seizures, is fallible. It’s not something I or the Inquisition can afford to be. Much as it pains me to admit.” The elf nods lowly, understanding shining through on his face along with, dare I say it, a little pride.

“Yes. I also agree that the posturing is necessary.” His smile I feel is attempting to be comforting or reassuring, though some of it seems forced. Not as much as before, but still a tad. Whether that has to do with the suspicious feeling I get from him or an uneasiness around people he doesn’t know, I haven’t a clue. “This is quite serious on its own, regardless, and I understand your concerns. I will do what I can to help you find some answers. Would you mind if I examined you? It may aid in my understanding of what exactly is going on.” I blink a few times.

“Magic,” I laugh a little. “Right. Sorry. I keep forgetting that’s a thing. You’d think it would have sunk in by now. Please, by all means, go ahead.”

Head bowing slightly in acquiescence, he moves his chair a little so he won’t be awkwardly leaning across the table. I watch with fascination as his hands begin glowing a very soft blue before he gently runs them along the sides of my head. It makes me shiver again, strangely, but I pass it off as me not being used to or fond of touch. “For someone from a place with no magic to speak of, you are remarkably at ease with it. Most would be afraid.” He sounds amused, if not a hint bitter.

“I’m not most. I find it fascinating, and amazing, though I know what little I’ve gathered only scratches the surface. Almost everyone else here seems so scared of it. Fear of the unknown is understandable, but they make no effort to learn about it. Knowledge begets understanding and understanding chases fear. I learned that a long time ago. It’s saddening to me to see barely anyone try. They’d rather lock it up in a tower and pretend it doesn’t exist until it’s convenient. I don’t mean to rant, and perhaps this is simply a reflection of where I’m from, but the whole of how magic is treated here sickens me to a degree.”

His expression turns grim. “Not a popular opinion, but I can agree with the sentiment.” There’s more that I can tell he could say, should he wish it. Something behind his countenance, something he holds back. The man is a bottle of opinions, and strong ones at that, but he restrains himself admirably. I don’t pry. It’s not my place, despite how much I want to.

“When Leliana and Cassandra began explaining this whole…civil war with the mages and these Templars I keep hearing about, I kept thinking of a quote from a story I’m rather fond of,” I say softly as he finishes a final pass of his hands over my head. The words come to me easily despite being long-winded. They’ve always resonated with me, my distaste for that particular installment in the series notwithstanding. “‘ _What was first the bright light of hope has now turned into a long night of captivity. Lost in the dark, we surrender our minds and forget who we are. But some of us have woken up. They remind us that we all have a choice. To stand, not kneel. To oppose, not obey. To live, not just exist._ ’

“I’ve been shoved into the middle of this mess. I’m loath to think myself naïve enough to disregard the possibility that I may very well have a hand in shaping the outcome. From what I’ve gathered of the situation, I agree with the mage rebellion. I agree with the dissolution of the Circles of Magi. To me, those were barbarity incarnate. So was the Templar Order, though not just against the mages. Templars were, to my understanding, so bound to the Chantry that just as with the mages, choice was eventually stripped from them. Or at least the illusion of choice, until they were cowed to submission. Choice of thought, choice of opinion, choice to stand were lost to them, just as mages in the Circles had long lost the choice of opposing, choice of livelihood, choice to act. Both of them, though…they both collectively were robbed of the choice to _live_. And if studying crime all these years taught me nothing else, it’s that people will snap back eventually when they feel crowded into a corner with no other options and use whatever excuse to do it. I’m not even from Thedas, and even I can see that this war they’ve got going on was inevitable. The whole situation was a stack of blocks just waiting for the right brick to topple it over.”

My monologue finished, I peer up at the man with a hint of embarrassment at my rambling…again, ready to apologize, only to find him staring at me with some look I cannot place. I’m honestly not sure I want to, so I don’t. Instead, I file it away for later, for another time when I feel I am better prepared to face what intensity lay beyond that mask he wears.

The _look_ , as I’m going to call it, disappears as soon as I catch it and is instead replaced by a hearty chuckle. “I do believe you have summed it up more concisely and far more eloquently than most with more knowledge on the subject have managed.” Blushing now, I cough awkwardly at the compliment. Have I mentioned I can’t really do compliments? Well, I can’t really do compliments. They make me feel weird.

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m still processing everything. I tend to get philosophical sometimes. I just apologize for taking it out on you so suddenly.” Clearing my throat, I straighten my posture and force myself to wryly grin. A subject change is long overdue, lest my face burn off. “So, what’s the verdict on my brain? Am I dying?”

“Hardly,” Solas retorts, thankfully going along with the change and with my sarcasm. “There are a few abnormalities of note, but unless I were to examine you while you were undergoing a seizure, I’m unsure how that may or may not play in. I will do some research— _discreetly_.” He clarifies quickly, shooting me a significant look when I pull what is probably a mortified face. “In the meantime… You said you have medication from your world? How long would that last?”

“Three months, give or take a few days. More if I were to begin weaning myself off of them.”

He hums and pauses a moment. “For now, I would suggest since we are leaving in the morning to continue taking them for the time being. The conditions we will likely encounter I believe warrant such caution.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And then we go from there?” He nods, and I shrug back. “Sounds as good a plan as any to me. I trust you with this, Solas.” Appearing taken aback for a moment, the elf as with every other situation before recovers quickly. Master of masks, this one.

“I appreciate your trust, _da’len_ , though I find it curious that you would place such in me after having only just met. One would daresay you hardly know me to judge character.”

Slinging my bag on my back, I stand from the chair and shake my head as the elf follows my lead. “I don’t know, honestly. It’s weird. I almost feel like I know you from somewhere. Probably just remind me of someone I can’t think of. In any case, I’ve got a track record for being pretty good at judging character, thank you very much.”

He smiles a little, so I count my half-joke as a success. “Perhaps. Then I hope you find your trust well-placed.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” I grin, and we begin moving for the door. “Not to be abrupt, but I should probably go—still need to talk to Cassandra about a few things, and Harritt wanted to see me. Thank you for hearing my concerns, and for agreeing to help.”

He inclines his head. “It is of no trouble. I will be sure to update you as I learn more.” I slip out the door with a final grin of gratitude and a wave over my shoulder. One beast tackled, I sigh, feeling a bit more prepared to face the journey to the Hinterlands than I was an hour ago. And that has to count for something.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, the quote Elisabeth says in this chapter is from Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag, said by Edward Kenway. I personally, while a huge fan of AC, rather disliked Black Flag for a plethora of reasons. However that quote is and remains one of my favorite of all time. And it was appropriate. And I kept thinking of Solas' internal reaction to it. So I just had to put it in. Don't judge me.
> 
> Hope you liked it!
> 
> -Grover


	9. INTERMISSION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As per expressed interest and because I'm suffering a horrible bout of too-busy-with-stuff-to-write, I present a break in our regularly scheduled fanfiction to bring you excerpts for your judgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely to those of you expecting an actual update--I haven't had the time to write what with the end of the semester bringing terror and hell, being sick, dealing with university housing being assholes about things, organizing my internship, devising possible research topics for grad school applications, worrying about grad school applications, and several other problems that have been taking up my time and sanity. 
> 
> I mentioned last chapter that I have been churning around the idea of a Sherlock fanfiction featuring Elisabeth as I feel that she would mesh well in that universe. A couple of people have expressed interest when I asked if anyone would like me to post some excerpts from it, mostly so I can get an idea from those of you who are familiar with Elisabeth as a character what you think of it. If you're unfamiliar with the BBC version of Sherlock Holmes, then you don't have to read this. I'd be appreciative if you did, however, but I'm not going to twist your arm to do so. I'm not that cruel. 
> 
> Those of you who ARE familiar, on the other hand, if you could give me your feedback on these little tidbits, then I'd be grateful. I'm trying to decide if posting this story at all would be a good idea, and opinions are most welcome.

* * *

“ _A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other._ ”

-Charles Dickens, _A Tale of Two Cities_

* * *

 **The woman blows a huff of air** from her lips in frustration, tossing the glossy photograph she’d been looking at face down in the open file before her. Her arms cross over a smart button down, hands ripping thin, wire-frame reading glasses off her face. Almond-shaped eyes peer cautiously up at the greying man leaning against the edge of her desk. They ask, _plead_ , an unspoken question. One she voices anyway. “Greg, what in the bloody _hell_ are you expecting me to be able to find?” Her accent is American, tinged with a British lilt that only comes from years living away from her nation of origin.

The man, Greg, runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. It’s an action clearly done multiple times in recent moments, and the drawn look to his face gives a reliable indication of the amount of stress he finds himself under. It’s not too much of a shock, the woman thinks. Working for Scotland Yard can’t be in any way relaxing. “God help me, Elisabeth, I don’t know. I want your eyes on this. Please.”

She frowns, pulling the earpiece of her glasses she’d been chewing on out of her mouth to point it at him. “You have a consultant already. He’d be much better suited for this—why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I need _your_ expertise.” The woman’s eyes narrow, scanning along his haggard face. She finds what she’s looking for and raises a brow incredulously.

The glasses are moved to point at the facedown photograph. “You showed me a picture of a figurine on a table, Lestrade, and a standard employee ID photo of a missing engineer. All _I’m_ getting out of it is that your kidnapper likes sculptures and your Missing could stand to wash his face a little more. Hardly gospel words of insight.”

Lestrade’s grimace twists to look almost _pained_. “It’s more than that. Please, Elisabeth, I’m begging you here.” Her dark eyes go comically wide as she begins slowly swirling herself left and right in her office chair. The glasses find their way to rest on her lips again, though instead of beginning to chew on the well-gnawed plastic covering, her face bears the faintest whisper of a grin.

“What’s this now? The great Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, begging little ole’ me to consult on a case for New Scotland Yard? Never thought this day would come. Are you feverish? You _do_ look a little pale, come to think of it…”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he groans, throwing his head back in exasperation that only makes the woman spinning in her chair grin more. Her chuckle is low, albeit forced as she leans forward to flip the photograph over again and rearrange it in the file folder.

Not making eye contact as she shuffles papers back to some semblance of order, she nonchalantly chides, “If you’re worried about one of my students barging in and hearing something oh-so-top-secret, don’t. I’m on lunch break, technically. But whatever it is you’re not telling me, just spit out that you can’t instead of trying to string me along by begging. Really, Greg, it’s beneath you.” He whips his head around to her, staring for a few beats before rolling his eyes. She thinks she hears something muttered along the lines of “not that bloody transparent” before he’s uncrossing his arms and turning to face her properly.

“Right, fine. This case is weird. I _do_ need you to consult. But you were…asked for. By name. Wasn’t supposed to tell you, so if you could conveniently pretend _not_ to know that information…”

Her brow rises again. “By name? By _whom_?” A hand curls up from where her elbows are resting on the varnished oak desktop to fold over her mouth. The grim look that passes over Lestrade’s face does her nerves no favors, nor her damnable curiosity.

“Hmm. Why me? I’m no one…oh.” Her eyes brighten a little with realization, puzzle pieces clicking along with the gears in her mind as she leans back again in her chair. “He went missing an hour ago, yeah? Called in shortly after? How many of your people have you had parading through the lab? Have they touched anything?”

His brow furrows. “Only the photographer from forensics and a team to look for prints on the figurine. Everything was photographed as-was before and put back as it was found. Wait, why’d you say it’s a lab? That’s not in the report I gave you.”

“Figurine’s on a shiny, unmarred metal table. Your Dr. Logan Northcott either has a strange choice in workbenches or he’s working in a lab. I can practically _smell_ disinfectant through the image.”

“Right,” Lestrade drawls. “‘ _Only that he likes sculptures and a face that needs washing’_ , my arse.” Elisabeth only shrugs.

Flipping the file closed, she stands suddenly and reaches for the coat slung over the coatrack in the corner. It makes her message clear, even as she speaks. “It’d be rude to deny such a candid invitation. Can you give me more details here, or am I going to have to wait?”

“Wait,” he grumbles, leading the woman outside her small office and waiting awkwardly in the narrow hallway for her to lock it up behind her. He glances only briefly at the plaque reading _Dr. Elisabeth Kardon—Criminology_ in stark, blocky lettering. It’s a lot like the woman herself—short, sweet, and to the point. “Be easier to explain when we get there. It’s not far. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, by the way. Not my idea.”

Her brow rises as she stuffs the keys and her glasses into the pocket of her coat. “It’s fine. Still don’t know how much help I’m really going to be, though.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, leading the way out of the building. “Believe me, this is better than the alternative.”

The last part is grumbled, obviously something she isn’t meant to hear. Elisabeth eyes her friend warily, not sure what to make of the situation and a feeling in her gut telling her that perhaps the answer isn’t something she wants to know.

 

* * *

**_Day 1—14:49_ **

* * *

 

...Her verbal adversary scoffs. “ _Permission_.” The word is spat as if containing some corrosive poison. “Please, _Sally_ , you lot need my help, permission or not. The sooner you get that through your thick little skulls, the quicker we can cease this pointless routine.”

Her eye twitches. “We can handle this, _Freak_. We don’t need your bloody _help_.”

“Oh, _obviously_ ,” sneers the man in an instant and well-practiced retaliation, not missing a beat. Within the pockets of his coat, unbeknownst to Sally or his companion, his hands clench into fists. “That’s why no one is daring to stand close to the door. I see the Yard’s degraded to the point they're not even trying to do their jobs. Yes, you’re _handling_ things marvelously.”

This incenses her, and her jaw drops in offense; however, a police car pulling up to the scene cuts off whatever else she was going to say. A backwards glance at the vehicle conversely causes the taller man to smirk and the shorter to roll his eyes.

“Ah, impeccable timing,” he utters gleefully as the very same Detective Inspector he had been asking after exits the driver’s side, but the grin falters when the passenger door cracks open as well. An unfamiliar woman emerging from the car’s depths is obviously an addition neither he nor the other two individuals clustered around the police tape are expecting, and his sharp eyes quickly rove across her slight frame in a harsh scrutiny. She’s dressed professionally under the classic trench coat that’s partially buttoned and tied shut, heels clicking smartly yet awkwardly on uneven pavement, notably lacking any kind of purse or handbag. Short black hair beginning to show sparkles of silver, strongly Asian in features, stern-faced if not a bit confused. Uncomfortable with the situation but not with Lestrade, so she knows him at least a bit. The man narrows his eyes as the two near, not entirely dismissing her as too boring to be worth his time only because her presence is far left of field. She’s honestly rather unremarkable.

Lestrade mumbles a curse upon seeing him that makes the woman shoot the detective a look of amusement. “Should have figured you’d sniff this one out.”

“I daresay you were a bit ambitious to try keeping something so delightfully interesting from me.” His flash of a smile is sardonic and sarcastic, causing the out-of-place tag along to snort a laugh. The smile, like his grin moments before, drops quickly, and his eyes fixate on her curiously again. He doesn’t comment otherwise. She’s plain and almost uniform enough to be a bit more challenging to read, not that he’d ever admit such out loud, and he would rather arm himself with more deductions before tackling the proverbial beast.

The curly-haired woman behind the tape has no such reservation, though he can’t help the wrinkle in his nose at the utter lack of eloquence her blunt question carries. “Who’s she?” This causes the she in reference to stand straighter, defiant of the strangely accusatory tone. Her nod to those gathered is delivered stiffly yet politely.

“Elisabeth Kardon. Greg invited me. Pleasure to meet you.” _American_ is tacked on to the running list of facts the tallest individual has gathered, right alongside the realization that she’s been in country for at least ten or so years if the dilution of her accent is anything worthy of note. Mother from east Asia with her father’s side probably of Jewish descent, maybe Ukrainian from the surname—either that or she was adopted, but he suspects that to be the less likely of the two. Odds are in favor of New England by the heavy concentration of Jewish ancestry in the region, but it’s also possible she’s from elsewhere in the States. And, perhaps most importantly, she has some skill or knowledge to warrant being brought in on a case. _That’s_ what snags his attention—and hint of ire—the most.

“You have another consultant?” the one in the coat snaps irritably. The other man, essentially ignored at this point, shoots him a warning look. “ _Sherlock_.”

It’s useless as his glare does not lessen. Elisabeth’s lips stretch into a tight smile, dark eyes going hard despite having expected such a reaction immediately upon seeing the rather infamous consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes’ reputation far proceeds him, as well as that of Dr. John Watson beside him.

* * *

...With a reciprocating nod of gratitude, John darts back around the corner the way they came, beginning to press his phone to his ear and brushing past a frazzled looking Sergeant Donovan. Elisabeth catches the twitch of Sherlock’s jaw tensing when he sees the woman with the radio clutched in her hand. The bad blood there is rather simmering, she realizes with a raised brow.

“Sir,” Donovan says briskly, elaborating on her presence in the out-of-bounds building before anyone can get a chance to ask her. “Chief Superintendent radioed—wants a word.”

Lestrade cringes, barely noticeable. Donovan begins walking to keep up with the mobile-again group, apparently quite dogged in her message-delivering. “Ah, right. I’ll deal with that in a moment.” They pass through a set of automatic glass doors and into what Elisabeth notes suspiciously is akin to a decontamination chamber. As the glass hisses shut behind them and Lestrade begins to pass out nitrile gloves, a rock of ice begins to settle in the pit of her stomach. Sherlock, contrary to the woman’s growing unease, gains a Cheshire grin.

“Ooh, in a spot of trouble, are you?” His pressing is ignored, again to his displeasure.

Donovan frowns, continuing as though uninterrupted. “She said immediately. Didn’t sound happy.”

“Immediately _in a moment_ , yes.” A small beep sounds before the final set of doors into the laboratory slide open. “This is more pressing. I doubt waiting a few more minutes will give her an aneurism. Besides, there’s no signal in here. Concrete walls and all that.” Lestrade’s hands slide casually into his pockets, a move Elisabeth notes with a frown. Sherlock has already darted off to begin inspecting the figurine on the round metal table in the middle of a room decked out in enough tech to make anyone involved in a scientific field drool. This causes the woman’s frown to deepen for an entirely different reason than it manifested. Computers, industrial counters, several different types of equipment that she can’t even recognize but look _extremely_ expensive—it’s spread around the pristine space in a neat and orderly manner. It all reeks of disinfectant. Too much so.

A door in the back leads to another room, though it’s difficult to tell what lay beyond from the way it’s darkened past the clear Plexiglas. Elisabeth gets a daunting feeling she doesn’t need to be told to figure it out as she stops short of getting any closer to the table, gears whirring.

“Miss Kardon said you looked for prints on this. However, you didn’t—”

“Bioengineer,” Elisabeth blurts suddenly, cutting the consulting detective off and drawing all eyes to her. She whirls sharply to look at Lestrade now standing off to the side with Donovan. “The man who was taken, Dr. Northcott. He wasn’t just an engineer like you told me. He was a _bio_ engineer.”

Sherlock huffs. “So, this is a missing person, then. Just as I thought. What was he working on? Must be dangerous to keep everyone out. This is a military facility to boot—insignia on the glass there proves it…”

He and Elisabeth share a glance. A lot is communicated in that look, but mostly it is an agreement for a temporary alliance to press for the shady answers Lestrade is not providing them. Answers they need. A mutual truce forms between strangers each still uneasy around the other.

Elisabeth grits through her teeth, “Please tell me he wasn’t developing a bioweapon?”

The Yard detective, to his credit, looks a bit strained. He peers to the Sergeant next to him with apprehension. She looks back with slightly wide eyes. The conversation is beyond her pay grade, they both know it, but he gives in with a sigh.

“We think so.”

* * *

“You mean like you let them touch this setup on the table?” snarks the consulting detective, drawing attention back to himself while simultaneously pointing it dramatically to the figurine. “Someone took something. Whoever left this little message placed the statuette slightly off center but left the rest of the room impeccable. There were two things set here; your perpetrator is too OCD to be so meticulous with the equipment yet be sloppy with the centerpiece of the show. Where’s the second object? Would it have anything to do with why you brought Miss Kardon?”

The woman in question chimes in before Lestrade can do it for her. “Perhaps. Actually, I’d say likely, but a definite reason he brought me is because I’m a professor of criminology at Cambridge. I did my dissertation on the 2001 Amerithrax attacks. I’m one of only a handful of criminologists who even so much as _dabble_ in studying bioterror, forget that it’s my research specialty. That only means that the person who took Dr. Northcott also snagged whatever he was working on—and he _was_ working on a bioweapon, wasn’t he? I’m here to coordinate a law enforcement response, but this is a bit premature even for proactivity, Greg. What else aren’t you saying?”

* * *

...They all realize the severity of the situation in that moment. Four sets of wide, dumbfounded eyes peer at Donovan’s hand holding the glass in varying states of awe, curiosity, terror, and shock before Elisabeth suddenly, with a surge of adrenaline and recognition, bolts from the table towards the door. Lestrade cries out her name in shock, perhaps thinking she is trying to escape the room though that is not the case. Her eyes lock onto a switch she’d noticed upon entering the lab, a biohazard symbol impressed in stark white against the bright orange-red, and her hand slams against it. The harsh smacking sound that resonates does so with a sort of echoing finality.

From beyond the two now sealed doors of glass and as emergency lights begin flashing a warning of a released biological contagion, Elisabeth’s frantic eyes meet the startled ones of a Dr. John Watson just poised to enter the first set of freshly inaccessible doors. Finished with his phone call just late enough to save him.

Several feet away, Sherlock looks at her with Lestrade and Donovan. A considering expression is upon his face. “This isn’t someone trying to frame you…” It’s absently mumbled, but the woman hears it regardless and turns slowly from where she’d been having an impromptu, shock-borne staring contest with the man’s partner.

Swallowing, her face falls grimly. A dark-haired head shakes sluggishly from side to side. She inhales a shuddering breath. “No. This…this was a _trap_.” Elisabeth’s eyes fix on Donovan suddenly, becoming harsher than Sherlock would have thought them capable. “I can’t believe you two…”

“W-what are—?!”

“I thought you said this place had been checked! Besides that, the first rule of dealing with objects in an unknown, suspicious biolaboratory setting: Don’t fucking _touch anything_ without proper hazmat precautions.” Her voice is cold, and Donovan’s eyes seem to grow wider, if that’s even possible. “You just exposed everyone in here to an unknown pathogen. We're all on emergency quarantine as of now. Congratulations, Sergeant.” In the crawling, digestive silence that follows, Sherlock can’t help but think that the woman took the words directly out of his mouth.

Eventually, Lestrade mumbles the one word that sums up their current situation quite aptly.

“…Fuck…”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. This is a rough concept of what I'm thinking of doing. It needs to be edited and fleshed out--I realize this wholeheartedly. Parts of it don't make a whole lot of sense, mostly because I need to do more research into biolabs and how they work and function and procedure. Research for that has had to unfortunately take a backburner. Hence why most of this talk and description of the lab is kind of cobbled together and mostly guesswork. Think of it as placeholder material, maybe? I don't have a good term. 
> 
> Anyway, please feel free to tell me what you think. Again, if you're upset about this not being a real chapter, I am so sorry and thank you for putting up with my crazy nonsense.
> 
> -SneakAttack


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